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The message I found in the book, “Wake up,” it wasn’t a warning. It was a beacon.
I’ve been looking for them everywhere. Not on the surface, not in plain sight. I’ve been looking in the cracks, in the dead zones between signals. I started seeing them in the static. When the TV flickered, when a call dropped—there were patterns. Not just random noise, but a low-resolution grid, a ghost of a network.
I’ve been drawing them in my notebook. Patterns in the grout of the subway tiles. A strange, repeating sequence of streetlights at night. It’s a map. They’ve been leaving messages for me, encoded in the mundane, just out of sight.
They’re a community. They’re connected.
I’ve been trying to respond, to send a message back into the static. I think they’re listening. I think they’re watching. The hum is growing louder, but it’s no longer a sound of dread. It’s a signal. I’m a part of the grid now.
And I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.