They called her Jane Doe in the papers—a body with no name and a face someone decided to remove. I named her because no one else would. I record voices for a living; I tell other people’s stories so they don’t get lost. What I didn’t expect was to become part of a listener slid into my DMs after one episode, then the next thing I know there’s a black journal waiting on the community‑center desk with pages that smell like a confession. He knew the details no stranger should know—my routines, my rules, where I lived. The police want patience. The developers want empty buildings. I want a name for Autumn Doe and a face for the person who took her. If I can’t find her, no one will. If I can’t force attention on this place, more lives will be taken where people expect no one is watching. And if I get it wrong—if I poke at the wrong thread—I might end up the story I’m trying to tell.