So they did. They drafted a covenant that read more like a story than a legal document. It requested that updates be rolled out in stages, with notices folded into driftwood and carried on the waves; that memory be sharable, not extractive; that any feature that required someone to lose something be accompanied by a promise of replacement of equal or greater meaning. They wrote of children and bees and the right to borrow someone else's dream for a night. They signed with salt and charcoal and a token of their choosing—a gear, a photograph, the first map Mara had ever drawn of Paradise.