The ride was unremarkable.
A woman in her thirties, dressed in navy scrubs, climbed into the backseat just after midnight. She gave him an address with a tired yawn and leaned her head against the window before the car even pulled away. Her badge was turned backward, hiding her name.
She was asleep before the second stoplight, breathing shallowly, as if weighed down by exhaustion heavier than any night he'd known. City lights flickered through the rain-speckled glass, blurring streets into long, glowing streaks of orange and white.
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror now and then. She stirred once, murmuring something—"Tell her… I said"—but didn't wake. The words drifted, almost lost in the hum of the engine. When they reached the apartment complex, he parked gently.
The woman blinked, disoriented.
"You're home," he said quietly.
"Thanks," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes as if trying to scrub away the fatigue etched deep in her bones. She fumbled for her bag but paused, pulling out a small voice recorder with trembling fingers. She thumbed it thoughtfully.
"I always talk to this thing after shifts," she said, half-embarrassed, voice barely above a whisper. "Therapist says it helps. Sometimes it just makes me feel crazy."
She gave a quiet, sad laugh, nodded at him, climbed out, and disappeared up the stairs. He waited for the door to close before turning off the engine.
It wasn't until he got home hours later that he realized she'd left it behind.
The recorder sat on the kitchen counter like it didn't belong.
He tossed his keys beside it, still feeling the residue of the city's restless hum in his ears. His bones ached from too much stillness. The night outside was dark and indifferent, but inside his cramped apartment the silence felt heavy—almost suffocating.
He went through his usual ritual: coat on the hook, kettle on the stove, a half-slice of bread left toasting too long and growing burnt at the edges. The whistle of the kettle was sharp and piercing against the quiet.
The device blinked, a tiny red light pulsing steadily.
He stared at it, caught between curiosity and hesitation. Then, finally, he pressed PLAY.
"Okay. This one's for me, and maybe for you. If you ever hear it."
The voice crackled faintly, but it was hers—different from the tired woman in the backseat, softer, raw, vulnerable. Honest in a way most people never allowed themselves to be.
"I wanted to say this to your face. I did. But I never got the timing right. And now… well, I guess I missed my chance."
He leaned against the counter, the words catching in his throat.
"I loved you. You know that, right?"
The voice trembled, then paused, as if gathering courage.
"God, it feels ridiculous now. You probably forgot me. Or worse—you remember me as something I wasn't. Stronger. Calmer. But I wasn't either of those things, not really."
His hands clenched the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. The flickering kitchen light reflected off the recorder's screen, a small beacon in the dimness.
"I thought time would help. That distance meant healing. But all it did was give me more silence. And no one to fill it."
The message continued, long and meandering, weaving memories and regrets into a fragile tapestry of a love slowly unraveling. The pauses held things left unsaid—too fragile to speak aloud. It was a confession, a quiet unburdening, an offering to someone who might never respond.
He felt like a trespasser—someone eavesdropping on a prayer not meant for human ears.
But he couldn't stop listening.
"I don't need you to say anything back. I guess I just wanted you to know… I kept the scarf. The red one. Still smells faintly like that old pine cologne you wore. The one you always swore you never bought. I lied when I said it was too strong. I liked it. It smelled like you."
He closed his eyes. That cologne—he hadn't worn it in years, not since it became a ghost in his clothes.
When the message ended, there was a soft beep, then silence. No follow-up, no name. Just that same invisible weight she carried—now transferred through the machine and into his small, lonely apartment.
He replayed it three times.
Then, finally, he sat down at the small table by the window. His tea was cold, the bread forgotten, and the city noise filtered through the glass.
The photograph was still in the drawer.
He hadn't touched it in five years.
It was the only one that hadn't been packed away or thrown out in the slow exodus of memory from his home. He didn't know why he kept it. Habit, maybe. Or cowardice.
He opened the drawer now.
There it was. His son, eight years old, missing a tooth, grinning like the world had never broken him yet. The boy held a paper dragon in one hand, the other tightly clasped in his father's.
His own face in the picture looked lighter, less folded in on itself.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he picked it up.
He held it like it was fragile—as if the paper might disintegrate if he exhaled too hard. He didn't cry—not yet. Maybe he'd forgotten how. But something moved inside him, slow and difficult, like ice cracking under a timid spring sun.
A memory rose unbidden—his son's voice, soft and eager: "Make it breathe fire, Dad." The way he'd tried to blow steam from his mug like smoke, just to make him laugh.
He didn't say anything aloud.
But his fingers gripped the frame tighter.
Later that night, he sat in the car again. The world outside was dark and damp. Streetlights cast halos on the wet pavement, turning rain into liquid gold. A cold wind whispered through the empty streets, carrying the distant hum of late-night traffic.
He pressed RECORD.
Then hesitated.
The red light blinked steadily.
He said nothing.
Then whispered:
"I still remember the fog on the window. You called it ghost breath."
He stopped.
That was all.
He deleted the recording. Not because it wasn't enough—but because it was.
For now.
He rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
The engine wasn't running. The night held its breath.
Somewhere deep inside, the silence shifted.
He didn't know if it was grief, or something like healing.
But it felt like something was finally listening.
There, in the quiet aftermath, a faint crack appeared in the darkness.