The cassette deck clicks. Static spits like sea foam against glass. Then his voice—rough, familiar—Calla, if you’re hearing this—
And then mine. Calla. Not from the tape. From the hallway behind me.
I spin. The house groans. The tape keeps spinning, but the voice in the dark isn’t his. It’s mine, but wrong. Too deep. Too wet.
And the front door is wide open.