A voice I had never heard—because by the time I entered his life, he had already stopped speaking.
"Massima, today marks our second anniversary. I hope we'll always be together."
"Massima, we've been together for three years now. My wish this year is still the same—to be with you forever."
"Massima... why did you leave?"
"Massima, I've decided to get married."
Something clattered to the ground behind me.
A worn voice recorder—the kind from another era, before digital files and cloud storage—rolled out from a corner where it must have been dislodged during his frantic search.
Its red light blinked on and off like a dying heartbeat.
Playing its contents for the empty room.
They were love letters. Confessions he had recorded for her, starting from when he was barely more than a boy. Year after year of devotion, captured in magnetic tape. A shrine to the woman who had abandoned him.
"Goodbye, Massima. I hope I'll see you again."
"Goodbye."
The recorder seemed to be broken. Damaged, perhaps, from years of obsessive handling.
It kept repeating those two words.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
He lunged forward and snatched it up, cradling it against his chest like a wounded animal.