The Blindfold

Letter 26 of the Book of Forgetting

The old well stood grey at the south edge, and the morning air carried the smell of wet stone. I set Noa's two microphones on the grass—one on a short stand at the well mouth, the other on a smaller stand where Liesl Kfir would stand. She was already there, her canvas apron off, her stopwatch in her hand.

"You want the blindfold on first?" I said.

"Fine." She tied it herself, a dark cloth over her eyes. "Arm height, one stone. I say 'now' each time I hear a sound."

I picked up a stone from the pile we'd been using for weeks. It weighed about the same as all the others—a smooth grey river stone, cool in my palm. I held it out over the water and let it fall.

The splash came clean.

"Now," Liesl said.

I waited. The water settled. I heard nothing else.

"Now," she said again.

"You heard the second one."

"Clear as day. Like a stone hitting water again."

I checked the recorder at the well mouth. "The well mic caught the first splash clean. Nothing after." I walked to the ear mic and played it back. "Your voice saying 'now'—both times. No second sound."

Liesl pulled off the blindfold. Her face was flat, unreadable. "So it's in my head. Or my ears. Either way, it's not the well."

"It's the same kind of thing as the babies," I said.

She looked at me. "You keep saying that."

"Because it fits. They hear sentences nobody taught them. You hear a splash that isn't on any recording. Some of us pick up what others don't."

Liesl shook her head. "I'm not a baby. I'm going to the fog line tomorrow, with my own stopwatch, and see if I hear that second sound there too."

"You'll need company," I said. "Someone to record."

"Fine. Morning."

---

At the plaza café, Noa Hadar sat with a tablet, the audio tracks pulled up side by side. Liesl stood at the table, her coffee untouched.

"Noa," Liesl said. "You went back through the recording with the mic near my ear—the one from the well, three drops. Does that second splash ever appear on the track, or is it only on my spoken cue?"

Noa looked up. "I already checked the tracks side by side. The mic at the well mouth picks up the first splash, and the one near your ear picks up only your voice saying 'now.' No second splash on either track."

"So it's only in my head. Or my ears. But I heard it clear as day, a full second after the first splash, like a stone hitting water again."

"That's what you said each time," Noa said. "But the sound isn't there. It's like the delay—it follows you, not the well."

"Then why does my timer lag yours by a second on the same drop? Garrin's stopwatch is accurate, mine is accurate, we checked against the town bell. It's not reaction time."

Noa set the tablet down. "I don't know. But maybe it's the same thing as the babies hearing sentences. Some people pick up things the rest of us don't."

"The babies hear words from the fog," Liesl said. "I hear a second splash from the well. If that's the same kind of thing, then it's not in my head—it's real, just not on your mic."

"But if it's real, why doesn't it show up? I placed the mic three inches from your ear. If there was a sound, it would catch it."

"Maybe it's not sound," Liesl said. "Maybe it's something else. Like a vibration, or a signal that only some brains decode."

"That's a big jump," Noa said. "We don't even know what causes the delay, and now you're saying it's not sound at all?"

"I'm saying I need to know what I'm hearing before I go any further with this fog business. If it's only me, then maybe I should stop trusting my ears."

Noa was quiet a moment. "Or maybe you're hearing something that's not meant for everyone. Like the babies. We just can't record it."

"Then how do we prove it's real?" Liesl said. "If it's not on the mic, and it's not on the timer, then it's just my word."

"We could test you without you knowing what to listen for," Noa said. "Like Dalia suggested. If you hear a second splash when you're not expecting it, that's something."

Liesl picked up her coffee. "Tomorrow. At the fog line. I'll be there."

She walked off across the plaza. Noa watched her go, then looked at me.

"She's not making it up," Noa said.

"I know," I said. "That's what worries me."