Henry smiled. Lossless, he thought. Even the silence.
The music was a live recording of a woman singing “Cry Me a River” in a small jazz club. But it wasn’t like any recording Henry had heard. He could hear the wooden floor creak. The inhale before the first lyric. The way her voice broke on the word “heart.”
Henry laughed — short, bitter. “I was an actor. Briefly. Bad one.”