The edge of the frame was a sharp, digital cliff. On one side, the endless clutter of spreadsheets and unread emails; on the other, the perfect, unmoving turquoise of the "1408x930_Tropical_Paradise.jpg."

“The water is warmer than it looks,” it read. “But you have to stop looking at the resolution and start looking at the sky.”

Elias looked up. Above his monitor, the gray acoustic ceiling tiles of his cubicle began to dissolve. The smell of stale coffee was replaced by the sharp, electric scent of salt spray. The hum of the air conditioner deepened into the rhythmic roar of the Atlantic.

To the office staff, it was just a screen saver. But for Elias, it was a portal. Every afternoon at 3:00 PM, when the fluorescent lights hummed too loudly, he would minimize his windows and step inside.

He clicked his mouse, a frantic, rhythmic tapping. He tried to drag the cursor over her, but the pointer just slid across the glass. Then, a notification pinged—not an email, but a text box appearing right over the waves.