He didn't delete the file. He renamed it Proof.m4a and moved it to his desktop, a small digital anchor for the next time the world felt like it was slipping away.
"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." touching myself (audio only).m4a
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. He didn't delete the file
"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. It’s oak, I think
"I'm okay," the voice on the recording said, softer now. "I'm here. I'm solid."