“I know,” he said.

Lena’s fingers trembled as she typed: That’s insane.

I slept with the music box on my chest for two weeks after you left. It doesn’t play anymore. The spring broke. But I kept it because it still smelled like your room—like vanilla and old paper.

Lena’s heart hammered. She remembered the first time she’d seen those dots—years ago, in a college lecture hall, when a boy with messy hair had passed her a note that said You look like you already know the ending. Want to get coffee and tell me?

She deleted it. Too formal.

He looked up at her window again. The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared.

I miss the box. And maybe you.

For a full minute, Lena just sat there, the phone warm in her palm. Then she typed: Hey. Grandma said you have my music box.