He skipped to “My Dil Goes Mmmm.” The strings were lush, almost overwhelming. He remembered Priya’s laughter, the way she’d roll her eyes at the cheesy lyrics but hum along anyway. They’d planned to move back to India together. He’d said he’d follow her anywhere. Then the fight. Then the silence. Then the email she sent from Delhi: “I need space.” He never replied. He just put the CD away.

The FLAC files unfurled—lossless, pristine, exact. Not the compressed, ghostly MP3s he’d streamed for years. This was the master. He clicked the first track, “Salaam Namaste.”

He looked at the screen, then at the folder. Salaam Namaste -2005 FLAC- . 1.2 GB of pure, uncompressed past. He could delete it. Or he could copy it to his new laptop, carry it with him, listen to the subtle hiss of the master tape and the ghost of a squeaky piano pedal.