He didn't keep the files. He didn't upload them. He just sat back down and stared at the blank screen.
No music track. No band. Just his voice, raw and unprocessed, singing a song Leo didn't recognize. Something about a well and a rope and a hand letting go. It wasn't beautiful. It was true. Every crack, every gasp for air, every note that slipped slightly sharp—it landed like a stone dropped into deep water.
Below that, in different ink: