The light through the window had started to change, making the counter look softer where the dust sat untouched. She used to wipe it every morning before the sun got high. The neighbor’s dog barked once outside, the same short sound it made most afternoons when someone walked past the fence.

I could see the dogwoods through the glass, the first white starting on the branches just like she always mentioned on the spring tapes.

“Does this sound like me or does it sound like I’m reading off a paper?” she asked once while practicing by the counter, the recorder in her hand. I stood in the doorway and said it sounded fine. She shook her head and tried again anyway. “Just let me get this right,” she said. “I don’t want folks thinking we’re not home when we are.”

My thumb rested on the edge of the player without moving the button. The label on the special tape faced up, her handwriting clear even in the fading light. I wondered if she had sat in this same chair when she spoke into it, the shoebox open on the floor the way I had left it so many times. The thought made the room feel smaller for a minute, like the walls were listening too.

I stood up slow and walked to the sink. The floor was cool under my socks. I poured the cold coffee down the drain and watched the water run clear before I turned it off. The towel she had left folded there still smelled like the soap she used. I wiped the spot where the cup had sat and folded the towel again the way she always did.

The box was still on the table. I picked it up and felt the weight of the tapes shifting inside.

The one with her note stayed where it was for now. I carried the rest to the door but stopped before going out. The garage light was already off and the bench would be dark.

She had known the whole time. That was the part that stayed with me while I stood there holding the box.

I put it back under the workbench before the sun went down all the way. I haven’t opened it since.