Years later, Station 45 would be upgraded and the plates boxed in a storeroom. Someone would happen upon the crate labeled Cracktorrentrar and imagine a prank, or an urban legend. The sheets would be porous to time, the silver foil dulled, but the marks would persist in ways the eye could not read—metadata in the city's own systems, a trail of amendments that had rolled like a tide and left things closer to what they had once been.