It was made to hold a voice.
A confession. A melody.
A moment not meant to last — but kept anyway.

The handwriting on the labels tells us everything and nothing.
Some say “Side A.” Others, just a date. Or a name.
A mixtape for a stranger. A sermon. A secret.
We’ll never know.

It might have once played a love song on loop.
Or caught the static breath of a distant radio show.
Perhaps it wasn’t kept for the sound,
but for what it meant to remember.

Now it sits rewound.
Still. Silent. Not forgotten.
Like an unsent message
waiting for someone who knows how to listen.

No shuffle. No skip.
You had to start from the beginning.
And maybe that’s the point.

Not everything has to be fast.
Not everything has to be known.