Halfway down, Nora stops. She tells you why she wouldn't help empty the house. During Mom's last week, the monitor brought her voice into Nora's bedroom every night. Most nights she only asked for water. One night she asked Nora to open a door that wasn't there. Nora took the monitor apart. By morning, Mom had died. She has spent eight months wondering whether that mattered. You want to give her an answer that will fix it. Instead you admit that you screened Mom's last call. You were in a supermarket. You thought you could ring back after dinner. Neither of you looks away. Below you, the voice says it can forgive you both. It offers the words quickly, almost eagerly. Nora presses your hand. Your mother would have asked whether you'd eaten first. You both remember that at the same time. The voice falls silent.
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.