She posted the cover on a Tuesday — a song from 2004, recorded on her phone at the kitchen table after her husband went up to bed, forty-one followers, no expectations. A stranger with an anime avatar wrote that her voice sounded like the drive home from somewhere good. She read it eleven times before she turned the light off, and twice more in the dark.

The screenshot went into a folder on her phone called keep, which contained four things. Over the next six days she thought about the comment in the claims queue, in the car, in the dentist's chair. She was thirty-four and had been singing since she was nine. Nobody in the house had mentioned the recording, and she had not asked them to.