Leo pulled over onto the gravel shoulder. He killed the headlights. For a long moment, he sat in the dark, the ghost of her voice pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.

He smiled. A small, broken, real smile.

He never did. He’d been too scared of what he’d hear.

Her voice, at seventeen, filled the cab of his truck. Not singing. Just breathing. The song—a forgotten indie track called "Headlights" by a band called The Parachute Year—had a thirty-second intro of static and rain. But Mira had recorded over it. A hidden track only he knew about.

“You always said I drove too fast. Remember? You’d grab the ‘oh-shit’ handle every time I took a corner. You’d say, ‘Mira, the road doesn’t owe you anything.’”

The file was the last digital trace of his daughter, Mira.