Brazil

A trunk of recordings, and no name on a single one.

This door opened on something grander and stranger — a chandeliered ballroom, white dress uniforms turning across a polished floor, a whole evening that someone, somewhere, taped and then sealed away in a trunk. Nobody knows who. Nobody knows why.

I found four of the recordings intact. I won't pretend to understand them. I'll only screen them, the way they were meant to be heard. Listen for the part that doesn't add up.