It was a photograph of a bedroom. His bedroom. The one he grew up in—yellow walls, Nirvana poster, the crack in the window frame he’d covered with duct tape at fourteen. On the bed: a younger version of himself, maybe seventeen, holding a blank CD-R. The disc label said, in his own handwriting: “Songs I Will Never Finish.”
The file deleted itself.
But the cover art was wrong.
“You’re still not done.”
He opened it again.
