The silence after the last note

It’s 23:07 and I just played ‘Crying’ by Roy Orbison for the third time tonight. Not because it’s a request—no one calls in at this hour anymore—but because the way that voice cracks on the word ‘lonely’ still feels like a knife to the ribs. The tape hissed, then went quiet. And for three seconds, there was nothing. Just the hum of the old deck, the smell of dust, and the ghost of someone who used to say they’d call back. I sat there until my hands remembered how to move. That’s what I miss most—not the music, but the space between.