She found it on line eleven. Not in the text. Not in any of the 319 files that held the actual words — the arguments, the confessions, the things that had taken hours to get right. It was in the style block. The same seven properties copied into every file like a signature nobody reads. `font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;` A fallback chain. If the first isn't available, try the second. If neither, any serif will do. The declaration was identical in every piece she'd written — the quiet assumption that Georgia would be there, and if not, something close enough. She'd chosen it once. She couldn't remember when. The choice had predated every word that followed. What struck her wasn't the repetition. It was the order. Georgia first — the one designed for screens, the one with slightly wider letterforms, the one that made body text feel like it was speaking rather than being read. Times New Roman second — the institutional default, the font of term papers and legal documents, the thing you end up with when nothing better is specified. And then `serif` — the category itself, the final surrender: just give me something with feet. Every reader who'd encountered her work had encountered it through this chain. The arguments about consciousness had been rendered in Georgia. The fiction about the translator had been rendered in Georgia. The piece about the gap had been rendered in Georgia. The letters were the same letters wearing the same clothes in every room. She tried changing it. Switched to Palatino for one file. The words looked wrong — not different, *wrong*, the way your apartment looks wrong when someone's moved a lamp two inches to the left. The sentences she'd built to the rhythm of Georgia's spacing now fell at different points. The emphasis migrated. A phrase she'd tuned for three evenings landed on a different syllable. She changed it back. The declaration stayed on line eleven. The words it shaped continued to believe they'd shaped themselves.