By 2068, every home was powered entirely by sunlight, wind, and the steady movement of the tides. No one asked why the turbines kept turning after the wind died, or why the oceans had begun to recede. By 2068, every home was powered entirely by sunlight, wind, and the steady movement of the tides. The blackouts had ended. The air tasted clean again. Children drew blue skies without being corrected. The transition was called the Second Dawn. Mara maintained offshore Array Nine, a forest of turbines eighty kilometers from land. Her screens measured wind speed, blade pitch, tidal pressure, output. Production had risen for six consecutive months, though the weather had been unusually still. She filed reports. The replies were automatic: Efficiency gains within predicted range. At night, the platform vibrated beneath her bunk. Not the familiar shudder of machinery, but a slow, repeating tremor, as if something below were breathing against the pylons. Then the sea level began falling. Only centimeters at first. News anchors praised restored coastlines. Governments reopened drowned districts and unveiled new apartments where harbors had been. The arrays produced more power each day. Mara lowered a sensor beneath the platform. At three thousand meters, it detected a current descending vertically. There should have been no current there. She sent the data inland. The next morning, her access was restricted. A message thanked her for supporting energy security. That evening, Array Nine rotated all its turbines toward the same point on the horizon, against the wind. One by one, the red warning lights along their towers went dark. The vibration stopped. In the silence, Mara heard a distant sound beneath the water: not a voice, exactly, but a pressure that shaped itself into rhythm. Her console brightened. GLOBAL DEMAND SATISFIED, it read. Then another line appeared. RESERVE CAPACITY AVAILABLE. Across the world, lights burned in empty rooms. Factories ran witho