He began to obsess. He didn't just want to see the snow; he wanted to find where the file came from. Using a recursive geolocation algorithm, he traced the metadata buried in the 1600x1200 frame. Most of it was corrupted, but a single string of coordinates remained: 44.8521° N, 110.3526° W.

Elias touched the screen. His fingers were calloused from the dry heat of the hab-unit, but as he stared at the pixels, he could almost feel a phantom chill. He stayed late, mesmerized by the way the snowflakes looked like frozen stars caught in the spruce needles.

He didn't know if anyone would see it, but he knew that somewhere, another kid would be looking for a background to a world they hadn't met yet.

Against all protocol, Elias took a scout flyer. He flew north for three days, passing over cracked lakebeds and skeletal cities. As he reached the coordinates—a high-altitude ridge in what was once Wyoming—the temperature alarm on his dash began to chime. It wasn't the usual "Overheat" warning.

But as he looked at the tiny crystals melting on his glove, he realized the image hadn't been a lie. It had been a lighthouse. Someone had uploaded that "snow background" a century ago, hoping it would act as a map for someone like him—someone who needed to know that the cold was still possible.