It had been three years to the day since he last heard her voice.
Not the tinny version on her voicemail, the one that sounded increasingly robotic each time he listened to it.
(Because he still called her number multiple times a week. But it used to be every day. He supposed that was a growth, of sorts).
But her real voice. The one that had a slight lisp and was a little too deep for her small frame. The one that thought it knew the words to songs.
It did, but only the wrong ones.
What a strange anniversary.
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