But every night since, at exactly 3:04 AM, his PSP turns itself on. The memory light blinks. And through the static of the empty Game tab, he hears a whisper:
Silence.
"Harry," said the therapist, his voice not coming from the PSP’s speakers, but from somewhere behind Leo. Leo glanced over his shoulder. Empty room. "You’re looking for a compressed version of the truth. Smaller. Easier to carry. But trauma doesn’t compress, Harry. It just changes format." But every night since, at exactly 3:04 AM,