Nora answers on the first ring. You hear her car indicator and the soft rattle of something on the passenger seat. She asks whether you've unpacked the box from Mom's house. You look toward the hallway. Yesterday you brought home a little tape recorder and a biscuit tin. The recorder was still playing when you fell asleep. You ask how she knew. For a moment there is only the indicator. Then she says she heard breathing on her baby monitor tonight. She doesn't have a baby. It was a box she never threw away. You nearly laugh. She does too, and the familiar awkwardness makes the room feel solid again. Then your phone says, in your mother's voice, that Nora always was a difficult child. The line drops. Three knocks follow at the apartment door. Through the peephole, you see your sister holding the old monitor.
Someone is breathing beside you. You live alone. Your estranged sister knows why it sounds like your mother.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.