Авторский текст из восстановленного архива. Сверка с аудио — после загрузки записи.
The ledger closed.
The record wiped.
The teller shut the drawer.
I walked the rain between the glass,
but they were at the door.
Two heavy coats.
A steady pace.
Reflections on the street.
They matched my shadow in the dark,
and never missed a beat.
No room.
No account.
No number they could find.
But every pane behind me
kept two shadows next to mine.
If no file remembers me,
why do you know my name?
The city says I don't exist.
You follow just the same.
If no file remembers me,
why do you know my name?
An empty booth.
A sudden ring.
I never touched the dial.
A voice across the copper wire,
reading from the file.
It told me to return at once.
It offered me a choice.
I held the black receiver out,
and listened past the voice.
I never touched the dial.
My name was in the wire.
If no file remembers me,
why do you know my name?
The city says I don't exist.
You follow just the same.
If no file remembers me,
why do you know my name?
The line went dead.
I held the summons to the light.
A hidden route pushed through.
The paper kept what ink concealed,
and showed me what to do.
I called a number I still knew.
No book. No file. No screen.
A woman answered in the dark
and knew me when I spoke.