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ENDING A – Press Play

***

Leah hesitates, then presses play. There’s no music. No voice to ease her in. Just the soft click of a tape starting.

And then, gently, “She doesn’t scream right away.”

Her blood runs cold.

“At first, it’s confusion. Then the breath catches. Then the sound. The kind that tears the throat. The kind that echoes even after the tape ends.”

The voice is no longer Nora’s. It’s something beneath it. Something wearing her cadence like a costume.

Leah stares at her door. It’s closed. She locked it. Didn’t she?

“The door creaks open at 2:13 a.m. Not because it’s forced—but because she always forgets the latch doesn’t catch.”

Click. A soft creak behind her.

“She reaches for her phone. Not to call. Not to run. Just to understand.”

Leah’s hand tightens around her phone. It’s warm. Too warm.

“She’ll disappear neatly. Cleanly. The file will replace her. The metadata already has.”

Leah opens her email app. Nothing in her inbox. She types her name into Google. No results. She tries to text her sister. There’s no contact listed.

The phone buzzes once more.

“Her name is Leah. Was Leah. She was listening. She was paying attention.”

The lights flicker. She looks to the window. There’s someone standing on the fire escape. Watching. Not moving. Just listening.

“And now she’s part of the archive.”

The episode ends. A beat of silence. Then the voice returns—bright, cheerful, practiced:

“And that was Leah. She was one of our favorites.”

Outro music plays. Soft jazz under static.

Her phone vibrates again.

The screen lights up:

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