Seven voicemails. No words. Just breathing.Nora Chen deleted every one. She changed her locks, filed reports no one followed up on, and learned to catalogue the sounds of her Brooklyn apartment the way other people catalogue wine. Normal. New. Dangerous.Then a card appeared under her door. "You looked beautiful at dinner tonight".She hadn't been to dinner. She'd been standing at her kitchen window in sweatpants, eating cold noodles...