That night he dreamed of a cathedral built of circuit boards. Congregants filed through aisles of glowing ports, priests in hooded USB cloaks offering tiny plastic wafers—licenses, keys, patches—each one promising reconnection. At the front, an altar displayed a simple number: 61786. People knelt, inserted their tokens, and their devices sighed and came alive. Outside the stained‑glass windows, the city flickered like an error correction algorithm, and Jonah woke with his hand curled around a mug of lukewarm coffee, the warmth echoing the strange, quiet satisfaction of a machine finally doing what it was asked.