He didn’t care.

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.”

His phone buzzed. Ron.

Henry smiled. Lossless, he thought. Even the silence.

Henry almost walked out. But he didn’t. Because Leo queued up another track. This time, it was a demo — rough, acoustic. A man singing about a waitress in a diner who never looked up from her notepad.

Really listened.

“Unemployed. Then bitter. Now I carry trays.”