Viktor realized then why she wanted this specific version, the one she had downloaded decades ago on a dial-up connection. In the middle of the track, the music dipped in volume, and for three seconds, you could hear a background noise captured by whoever had ripped the original recording.
It was a laugh. A short, bright sound of a young woman—his mother—interrupting the practice session.
The phrase "muzyka betkhoven skachat mp3" sat in the search bar of Viktor’s browser like a relic from a simpler time. It was the digital equivalent of a frantic, handwritten note. Viktor wasn't a musician; he was a restorer of old things—watches, music boxes, and occasionally, memories.