He clicked play.

But the file was still playing. He could feel it in his molars. A low, subsonic hum. The vibration of a memory being excavated.

A new layer emerged. Beneath the piano and the ghost-whisper, there was a sound like a crowded subway station at 2 AM. Footsteps. A distant car alarm. Then, unmistakably, his own name. Not spoken. Thought . He heard his own internal monologue from that morning— "Did I lock the door? No, of course I did. Stop worrying." —playing backward and at half speed.

Leo leaned in. The meters on his master bus were peaking in the red, but there was no distortion. Just… pressure .

She was holding a pair of headphones to her ears.

At first, it was nothing. Hiss. The warm, analog crackle of a cheap preamp. Then, a single piano note, soft, drenched in so much reverb it sounded like it was being played inside a cathedral made of wet cardboard.

He tried to stop the track. The spacebar didn't respond. He yanked the USB cable from his interface. The screen flickered. The speakers went silent.

Then her voice came in.