“Zaitut maite, Leire.”
Leire’s hand flew to her mouth. She hadn’t been born yet when he recorded this.
Click. The tape ended.
A hiss. Then a woman’s voice—professional, patient, from some long-ago recording studio in Donostia.
Leire slid the tape into an old boombox she’d found beside his armchair. The motor whirred. She held her breath.
“Zaitut maite. Zaitut maite, Leire.”