Michael exhales, rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm himself, though the room isn’t cold. His eyes flicker to you in hesitant, guilty, searching way.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he says, voice quiet but weighted. “I never meant to keep this from you.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. His gaze drops for a moment before he forces himself to meet yours.

“Hanna Schmitz. That’s who the voice memos are for.” A beat of silence. “Years ago, when I was a teenager, she was… she was my first love. But it wasn’t just that. She was older. I thought I knew what we were, but I didn’t understand anything.”

His throat tightens, and he swallows hard. “She left without a word. And then, years later, I saw her again…on trial. For war crimes. I sat in that courtroom and realized she was hiding something that made her choices make sense in the worst way.” He exhales sharply, as if the memory still stings. “She was illiterate. That shame dictated her entire life. It shaped everything she did.”

He pauses, searching for the right words. “I started sending her recordings of books. It was my way of… I don’t know. Making sense of it all. Giving her something no one else ever did.” His voice drops lower. “And maybe…maybe I was just trying to understand who she really was.”

He watches you carefully now, bracing himself. “I never told you because I didn’t want this past to touch us. To touch you. But now, the past has called. And I can’t ignore it anymore.”