I found a thin, cracked cassette in an attic in the Midwest, pressed for a little folk‑protest group called “The Echoing Hush.” The only track was a single voice reciting a protest poem, then a pause that stretched longer than the recording even wanted to, followed by a scratched guitar that was louder than it should have been. The hiss was like wind through a broken window. When I play it, I hear the crackle of a fire, the scent of burnt toast, and I can almost see the crowd in a dim, concrete square. It still echoes because it was never meant to be pristine – the imperfections hold the memory of the protest, the smell of sweat, the feeling of being caught between hope and fear.