I froze. In the recording, I heard the sound of a mouse clicking—the same click I had just made. The file wasn't a recording of the past. As I listened, the audio began to sync with the present. I heard the sound of my own breathing through my headphones, delayed by a fraction of a second.

Static hissed for three seconds, then a voice cut through—clear, crisp, and terrifyingly familiar. It was my mother. But she was laughing, talking to someone about a movie that hadn't been released yet in 1998.

It was a recording of a room. I heard the hum of a computer fan, the click of a mechanical keyboard, and then, a heavy sigh. It was the exact sound I make when I’m tired. Then, a voice spoke from the recording—not my mother’s, but mine.

I looked at the file list again. There were files dated for 2027. 2030. 2055.