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The file was buried in a folder labeled Unsorted_2024 . It had no thumbnail, just the generic grey icon of a voice memo. Elias clicked it, expecting a forgotten grocery list or a half-mumbled melody. Instead, the speakers crackled with the sound of static and a shallow, rhythmic breath.
The audio wasn’t what the title suggested. It wasn't a confession or an act of vanity. It was a sensory inventory. In the recording, Elias listened to his past self describe the physical world as if he were a ghost trying to anchor himself to it. touching myself (audio only).m4a
The audio cut out. Elias looked down at his hands, now older and marked by different winters. He reached out and touched the edge of his desk, the wood grain rough under his fingertips. He felt the ridge of the scar on his palm.
Elias sat still in his darkened office, listening to the ghost of who he used to be. The younger Elias described the texture of his own sweater, the weight of his watch, the way his pulse felt against his thumb. It was a desperate attempt to prove he existed during a year when he had felt invisible. The file was buried in a folder labeled Unsorted_2024
"I’m recording this because I’m starting to forget what I feel like," a voice whispered. It was his own voice, but younger—sharper.
As the 12-minute file reached its end, the background noise changed. He heard the distant siren of a city he no longer lived in. Instead, the speakers crackled with the sound of
"I'm okay," the voice on the recording said, softer now. "I'm here. I'm solid."
"The desk is cold. It’s oak, I think. My knuckles are dry from the winter air. I’m touching the scar on my palm from that summer in Maine—it feels like a ridge of smooth wax."
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