thirty one seconds

You still have a voicemail from your grandfather. Thirty one seconds, mostly about a greenhouse. He starts to say goodbye twice and remembers one more thing about the tomatoes both times, and then he laughs at himself, and that laugh is the reason you have paid for extra storage across four phones and nine years.

You play it maybe twice a year, always in the car, parked, where nobody can see you. For thirty one seconds the greenhouse needs seeing to, and everything is fine.