There are weights you can't put down — the thing that follows you home from work, that sits cold in your chest through dinner, that keeps you awake calculating costs you can't afford to pay. Andreas Karelis carries voices — not metaphorically, but literally, in a case full of tapes that get colder every time he plays them.

At the end of a drowned road in rural Greece, an old woman has spent thirty years answering her dead son's voice. Every dawn and dusk, Froso sits at the waterline with a cracked cassette player, listening to four bars of a nineteen-year-old boy singing, then carrying the song where he cannot. Below the surface, the church bell tower still stands, and somewhere in its flooded darkness, Yannis waits.

But Froso is dying, and when she goes, who will keep the boy from going silent forever? Andreas came to record the old songs, but he'll leave carrying something heavier than folklore. Some voices demand to be kept. Some costs are paid not once, but every day, for the rest of your life.

The lake knows what it keeps. The question is whether you can live with what keeps you.