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Mara , he typed. What the hell was that?

He sat there for a full minute. Then he pulled out his phone.

The final three minutes were a decrescendo. The layers peeled away one by one—first the shimmering tone, then the pulsing bass, then the voice-like shape. What remained was a soft, pink-noise whisper, like rain on a window. The sensation faded from his fingertips, then his neck, then his chest. Finally, only a warmth remained behind his closed eyes.