Silence.
I stared at the device.
“No.”
I pressed the button again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
The final words were gone.
Or maybe they had been hidden.
I didn’t know.
And that uncertainty was almost worse.
The next morning, I called Clara.
She arrived within twenty minutes.
That was Clara.
She never asked if I needed her.
She simply came.
When she entered the condo, she looked at my face and immediately understood.
“What happened?”
I handed her the note.
Then the recorder.
Then the photograph.
She listened without interrupting.
When it ended, she remained silent for a long time.
Finally, she whispered:
“I knew it.”
I looked at her.
“Knew what?”
“That there was something missing.”
“What do you mean?”
Clara sat beside me.
“When Mom disappeared, everyone accepted Dad’s explanation too quickly.”
I frowned.
“You were only twelve.”
“I know.”
She looked down.
“But I remember something.”
“What?”
“The night before she left.”
My heart stopped.
“You never told me this.”
“Because I thought I imagined it.”
She looked nervous.
“What happened?”
“Mom and Dad were arguing.”
I became completely still.
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
Clara shook her head.
“But I remember Mom crying.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
“My mother never cried in front of us.”
“I know.”
Clara looked at me.
“That’s why I remember.”
