David looked at his reflection in the dark computer screen. His lips were moving.
David took off the headphones. The room was silent. But in his left ear, faint as a radio signal from a dead station, the voice continued. devid dejda put- nastoasego muzciny audiokniga
He played it. Not from the beginning—from the middle. The voice was no longer Jerzy Muzcina’s. It was David’s. His own vocal cords, his own breath, recorded months ago during a calibration test he’d forgotten. But the words were not his. The words were a confession. Something about a girl in a green coat. Something about a bridge. Something David had never done. David looked at his reflection in the dark computer screen