November brought biting winds. On a Friday evening, Sophie carried an old cardboard box into my house. I recognized it immediately. It was the box that Nathan Mercer, Caroline Mercer’s distant cousin, had left for Sophie before he died. "What is that, Mom?" Caroline Park looked up from her textbooks. "These are microcassette tapes," Sophie said, placing a vintage silver tape recorder—one Lily had bought at an estate sale—on the table. "Your grandmother Caroline Mercer recorded them years before I was born, when she was still a patient at Harbor Ridge." Caroline froze. Until now, "Caroline Mercer" had always been a name on a headstone next to Emily’s grave, a central figure in a bioethics essay, or a line on a medical intake form. But she had never actually heard the woman's voice. "You’ve kept these all these years?" Caroline asked. "I said I would let you listen to them when you were old enough to understand that adults are mostly just terrified children trying to survive their own tragedies," Sophie replied, echoing her own words from years ago. I quietly stepped back, intending to head out to the porch to give the two women space. But Sophie reached out and caught my arm. "Stay, Dad. You are a part of this." I sat down. Sophie inserted the tape labeled "Thoughts on Being Alone (May 2007)" into the machine. A loud "clack" echoed. The hiss of the old magnetic tape filled the room, carrying a wave of memories from a past I had never truly belonged to, yet one that had shaped my entire life.