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She checked the upload log. Track numbers flickered—one of the newest submissions had no name, only coordinates. She followed them out of curiosity. They led her to a block in the city she'd driven past a hundred times, an old storefront with rusted bars and a boarded door. Rain sheaped along the curb. The coordinates felt like a dare. She stood in the drizzle, phone flashlight probing the wood. There, under a loose plank, she found a small cavity holding a cassette tape and a folded liner note: "For those who listen."