Halfway through, the track shifted. A weather report cut in, brisk and factual: “Expect scattered showers this afternoon; temperatures will dip by three degrees.” Maya paused, eyes flicking to the time. On the recording, a busker began playing an old violin, the melody threading a story about a lost letter that changed hands seven times. Each handover came with a tiny, test-like detail: “He tucked it beneath the bench,” “She read only the second line,” “The postmark read ‘June 14.’” Maya underlined dates and small verbs, knowing they were likely traps.