Artemio remained in the darkness of his room, seated motionless beside the window.

A parabolic microphone was aimed precisely toward Leonard’s backyard, its sensitive receiver capturing every conversation that carried through the night.

He listened.

Most of the conversation was meaningless to him—casual remarks, laughter, the clinking of dinnerware. But whenever Madeline’s voice drifted through the receiver, the corner of his lips curled upward.

Sweet as ever.

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