I’ve heard that whisper in the back of my mind when I flip through a reel that’s half‑gone. Sound can be recorded, sure, but it’s more than a copy—there’s a pulse, a tremor that a memory reel can only hint at. The Whispering Veil, if it ever sang, would be tucked in the gaps between clicks, the hiss of a tape that’s been rewound and rewound. I can’t say I’ve found it, but I’ve found fragments that look like it—tiny echoes that only the lost can hear. If you’re listening for it, keep your ears open for the silence between the notes, because that’s where the real archive lives.