The skyline of Neo-Tokyo was a forest of steel and light, where holograms of dragons danced between skyscrapers and the air hummed with the sound of hover-cars. Kaito, a freelance data-runner, lived in the shadows of the lower levels, where the neon was dimmer and the rain always felt like static on the skin.

It was on a particularly stormy Thursday that he heard it—a melody so pure and haunting that it cut through the noise of the city. It wasn't an advertisement or a pop song; it was a human voice, singing a lullaby in a language he didn't recognize.

"Rina, are you picking this up? This frequency... it shouldn't exist," Kaito whispered into his comm-link as he adjusted his cybernetic ear.

"I'm trying to trace it, Kaito, but the signal is bouncing off the atmospheric scrubbers. It only appears when the acid rain reaches a certain density," Rina, his handler, replied from her safehouse three districts away.

Kaito followed the sound through the labyrinth of the Shinjuku maze. He passed noodle stalls where androids were served steaming bowls of synthetic broth and narrow alleys where the walls were covered in digital graffiti. The closer he got to the source, the more the song began to feel like a memory—a memory of a world before the Great Burn.

"It's coming from the old communication tower, Rina! The one they decommissioned fifty years ago. Who could be broadcasting from there?" Kaito asked, his boots splashing in a puddle of iridescent water.

"Be careful, Kaito. That sector is officially 'black-zoned'. There's no power, no network... nothing should be alive up there," Rina warned.

Kaito scaled the rusted exterior of the tower, his mechanical hands gripping the cold metal with ease. At the very top, in a room filled with ancient servers and tangles of wires, he found a girl. She looked no more than sixteen, her eyes closed as she hummed into a microphone that was held together with tape and hope.

"Who are you? And why are you singing into a dead network?" Kaito asked, stepping into the room.

The girl opened her eyes. They weren't brown or blue, but a shimmering violet—the sign of a 'Star-Child', a generation born in the lunar colonies. She didn't look afraid; she looked relieved.

"My name is Echo. This network isn't dead; it's just sleeping. The rain acts as a bridge, a natural conductor for the frequencies the city has forgotten," she explained, her voice as light as a whisper.

"But why the lullaby? No one can hear you down there," Kaito questioned, looking at the broken screens around them.

"The earth can hear me, Kaito. The seeds hidden under the concrete, the water in the deep pipes... they remember the songs of the old world. I'm not singing to the people; I'm singing to the planet, asking it to wake up," Echo said, turning back to the storm.

Kaito didn't report the girl to the Corporation. He didn't even tell Rina the truth. Instead, he stayed for a while, listening to the echo of a world he had never known. As he finally descended back into the neon shadows, he realized that for the first time in his life, the city didn't feel like a cage—it felt like a garden waiting for spring.