In the silence of his apartment, Elias realized his foot was still tapping. But he wasn't doing it on purpose. His leg was moving to a beat he couldn't hear, but could feel vibrating through the floorboards.

He looked at the corner of his room. The shadow of his floor lamp seemed to be vibrating, slightly out of sync with the light.

The folder didn't contain photos or tax returns. Instead, it held hundreds of tiny text files, each named with a timestamp. He opened the first one:

Then, the recording picked up a voice, breathless and strained.