Below the image, a final line appeared.

Then he looked at his car keys.

Mark froze. He had done that. Last Tuesday. He’d hidden his phone in his jacket pocket while his wife talked about grocery lists. He’d listened back three times. Same drone.

Mark’s breath hitched. It wasn’t a puppet. It was a real person. But the crack… the crack was painted clay.

The black screen rippled like a pond struck by a stone. A new line appeared.