Between the stars, I heard it—a frequency older than light itself, buried in the static between thoughts. They call it the cosmic microwave background, but I know better. It's the universe remembering what it was before it learned to speak. Every pulse a word. Every void a pause between sentences. And somewhere in that silence, between the echo and the origin, something is still composing its reply. Tonight, I listened. It said nothing. Which means everything.
The Last Silence
