(This is a story review—the story it refers to follows after if you are interested)

Well, folks, this is it—my last review before I can finally retire (again?) to the quiet comfort of my crusty old armchair, a glass of whiskey, and the pleasure of never having to read another tortured piece of fiction. But before I hang up my reviewer’s hat, let’s dissect this little romp through mediocrity, shall we?

Misheard is a frantic jaunt through the mind of Ronald, a man who—much like this story—sprints headlong into confusion, misunderstanding, and implausible conclusions. The plot ostensibly revolves around Ronald’s paranoia, triggered by a simple session with Dr. Riccola, a therapist who likely (absolutely?) has sinister secrets lurking beneath her professional exterior. The key players? Ronald, who has a knack for making mountains out of molehills, and Caroline, the mysterious woman who weaves through his thoughts, much like my ex-wife used to weave through mine, leaving chaos and misplaced affections in her wake.

Ah, Caroline—warm, kind, and "a bit mysterious." That’s one way to describe her. But to me, she’s more reminiscent of my ex-wife, Margaret, the queen of dropped hints and shadowy allusions. Just like Caroline, Margaret had a way of making you question everything you thought you knew (she tried to tell me). Ronald, poor sap, is much the same—drawn to the enigma that is Caroline, only to find himself chasing phantoms through a park, breathless and bewildered. He could’ve saved himself the trouble by realizing what I’ve known for years: sometimes, the mystery isn’t worth the headache. Sometimes, the best solution is a strong cup of coffee and a (real!) therapist.

Now, about Dr. Riccola’s office, where this whole melodrama takes root. The author leaves it a blank slate—an empty stage waiting for someone to paint in the details. But you know what? Let me fill in those gaps for you. It’s sterile, of course—like all therapists’ offices, with neutral-toned walls that could use a splash of color and an Ikea bookshelf that’s one hard stare away from collapsing under the weight of unread self-help books. The carpet? A drab, beige monstrosity that swallows the sound of your footsteps, making the room feel like a padded cell for the mind’s more frivolous wanderings. And those chairs—dear God, those chairs—upholstered in a fabric that seems designed to cling to your insecurities as you spill them out onto the mahogany desk that separates you from Dr. Riccola’s piercing gaze.

How do I know all this, you ask? Ah, well, here’s a twist you actually didn’t see coming from a mile away. You see, Dr. Riccola isn’t just any therapist—she’s (was?) my mother. Yes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, though in her case, it’s an apple inked onto her ankle, a tattoo that’s sparked more than a few late-night, whiskey-soaked musings on the nature of maternal influence and unresolved Oedipal complexes.

But I digress. The story wants you to feel a chill when Ronald spots that tattoo, as if suddenly everything clicks into place. But for me, it was just another reminder that some stories are better left untold, some mysteries better left unsolved. Ronald’s paranoia is no match for the reality I’ve known all my life—that Dr. Riccola, for all her wisdom, is just a woman doing her job, like any other. And that tattoo? Well, it’s a relic of her rebellious youth, nothing more. The real rub is that I, a jaded, world-weary reviewer, am the product of that very office, shaped by its sterile surroundings and my mother’s tireless attempts to figure out why her son would rather write scathing reviews than come to terms with his own psychological baggage.

So there you have it, dear readers. My final words on a final book—a story that, like my career (life?), had potential but ultimately falls short, leaving more questions than answers, more doubts than resolutions. Perhaps, in some way, that’s fitting. After all, as I close this chapter of my life (again?), I find myself in the same place as Ronald—standing in the hallway of my mother’s office, wondering what it all meant and realizing that, in the end, some things are better left unresolved—even your own death.

**Misheard**

"Your time is up. Better run!"

Ronald bolted into the nearby park, his breath ragged, heart pounding. The sun hung low, casting long shadows as he pushed himself harder, the words looping in his mind.

He glanced over his shoulder, expecting dark figures in pursuit, but saw only the empty park and his own pounding footsteps. His mind raced, trying to piece together what had led him here, fleeing like a hunted animal.

It started with Caroline. She was warm, kind, a bit mysterious—qualities that drew him in. They had spent hours together, exploring the city, sharing stories. She had mentioned a minor incident from her past, something she shrugged off. But now, as Ronald ran for his life, that trivial detail seemed to hold ominous weight.

He struggled to remember specifics, but adrenaline blurred his thoughts. Caroline had spoken of a place, maybe a person. She had mentioned a friend, someone who helped her through a dark time. Who was that? He had been so absorbed in her, so caught up in their time together, that he hadn't given it much thought then. Now, every word felt loaded with meaning, as if he had missed something crucial, something dangerous.

As he weaved through the trees, his legs burning, his mind flashed back to the moment this madness began. He was in Dr. Riccola’s office, discussing Caroline, how she made him feel alive but also anxious, like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That session was supposed to help him understand his feelings, but instead, it led to this. The last thing Dr. Riccola had said, just as Ronald was leaving, now came into focus:

“Your time is up, Mister Ron!”

Ahh! “Ron, not run!” It had been just a simple statement to indicate their session was over. But lost in thought, half-listening, those words had twisted into something sinister, fueled by his anxieties.

He had bolted from the office, paranoia snapping something inside him, sending him running without fully understanding why. And now, here he was, in the park, fleeing from an imagined enemy. Relief washed over him as he realized how absurd it all was. He could already hear the teasing he would endure for this—a funny story to tell, nothing more.

But then, it clicked. Caroline had mentioned a friend, someone nicknamed "Cough Drop," who had killed someone—a secret Caroline had kept. The friend had blonde hair and wore an "apple cap." These details, vague at the time, now loomed large in Ronald's mind. In a leap of irrational logic, his subconscious had linked "Riccola" with Ricola throat lozenges, which he had recently seen in a commercial. Could Dr. Riccola be that friend?

The idea was ridiculous, absurd even. But in his panicked state, it had seemed plausible enough to send him sprinting from the office. He laughed at the thought—Dr. Riccola was blonde. Had that been enough to trigger this? Now that his rational mind had caught up, he couldn’t believe how foolish he had been. Determined to clear the air, Ronald turned and made his way back to Dr. Riccola’s office.

When he arrived, he burst through the door, slightly out of breath but relieved. He quickly explained to Dr. Riccola what had happened, how his mind had twisted innocent details into something sinister. They shared a laugh, and Dr. Riccola, still smiling, walked him to the door.

As he was about to leave, something caught his eye. There, on her left ankle, was a small apple tattoo.

Ronald's heart skipped a beat. The smile faded from his face as he looked up at Dr. Riccola. She noticed his gaze and followed it to her ankle, where the tattoo was plainly visible. A strange, knowing look passed between them. Ronald felt a chill run down his spine. He forced a smile, nodded awkwardly, and stepped into the hallway.

As the door clicked shut behind him, his mind raced. The apple tattoo—just a coincidence, he told himself, but it gnawed at him. She wasn’t wearing a cap. He forced a smile, trying to dismiss the unease creeping up his spine. But as he walked down the hallway, the laughter they had shared felt forced, the warmth in Dr. Riccola's eyes tinged with something he couldn’t place. He paused, glancing back at the closed door, his pulse quickening. Maybe it was nothing, just a harmless tattoo. But as he turned and headed for the stairs, a cold knot of uncertainty tightened in his chest, refusing to let go. “Tat, not cap!”