Years later, Jonah would still catch himself pausing at the console, listening to a loop of music that had shaped him. He no longer felt the old itch for a shadowy download. Instead he felt the steadier warmth of a room where stories were kept with permission and care. Preservation, he’d learned, wasn’t a single act of possession but a long attention — the work of repair, of telling, and of insisting that memories survive in ways that honor both the making and the playing.