[Intro – Spoken, Emma’s voice, over soft futuristic tones and desert winds] In the 25th century, they asked us to build a world. Not with machines… But with imagination. They called it a creativity competition. But for me, it was something else entirely. [ Verse 1 – Emma, toward the gates of the competition site] I packed a notebook, three pens, and hope, David brought maps, in case we couldn’t cope. Geneviève slept, humming through the train, As if the rhythm soothed something we couldn’t name. They scanned our IDs, no one looked twice, Just a mother, a daughter, a man who’s precise. But I felt the hum beneath the ground— Like stories waiting to be found. [Pre-Chorus] They said: “Imagine a world that never was.” But I’ve already seen it. In fragments. Because— Geneviève draws cities I’ve never shown, And sings old tunes in a voice not her own. [Chorus – Emma] So I enter not just for the prize, But for what echoes behind her eyes. If we must dream a world from dust— Then let it be honest. Let it be just. I’ll build from silence, from thread and flame— A memory… that speaks my name. [Verse 2 – Emma, to a competition official ] They asked me, “What’s your theme?” I said, “Time. And the places in between.” They laughed. “That’s too abstract.” I smiled. “So is love. But we still react.” We pitched our tent where the grass still grows, Next to a man planting digital rows. Geneviève chased a moth made of light, And called it Richard, then vanished from sight. [Pre-Chorus ] The other teams came with AI and drones— We came with lullabies and bones. And when they spoke of simulations deep, I saw her face. She was half-asleep. [Chorus - Emma] I’m not here to win or prove I’m right— I’m here because my dreams wake me at night. And if she sings what no one taught— Then someone, somewhere, remembers what I forgot. I’ll build from fragments, from dusk and spark— A memory that lights the dark. [Outro – Emma] This isn’t fiction. It’s the life we almost lost. It’s a story… I was born to tell. Geneviève hums again. David writes something in the dust. The contest begins. And something… remembers.
