Theo stood in the snow, breath forming clouds that dissipated too quickly. His boots crunched over the icy crust as he looked back at the small, boxy silhouette of the outpost.
He shouldn't have left.
But he also couldn't ignore what he had heard.
The transmission had arrived around 3:00 a.m., as he was preparing to send another letter to Mara. He hadn't been recording — not for anyone — just scribbling thoughts into a notebook when the receiver crackled and picked up a new signal.
Different frequency. Different tone.
He thought it might be a weather report. Or a rogue echo of Mara's voice bouncing off the ionosphere in some strange atmospheric delay.
But it wasn't Mara.
It was male. Smooth. Controlled. The kind of voice you might hear from a radio host who never blinked.
"Target located. Latitude confirmed. N-23. Transmissions matched to subject: Mara Ellison. Proceed with silence."
Then the frequency went dead.
Theo sat frozen. For a moment, he convinced himself it was a fluke — an old recording. Interference. Nothing real.
Then he heard it again. Fainter. This time, a whisper, but it cut straight through the static like a needle through skin.
"We know who you're talking to."
That was when Theo knew he had to leave.
He packed what he could — solar scanner, emergency rations, the old revolver buried under the floorboards — and began trekking south along the ridge. There was a backup station three kilometers away, once used for wildlife tracking. If he could reach it, he might reroute the transmission path, mask his signal, or at the very least warn Mara.
Something was happening. And it wasn't random.
Meanwhile, Mara couldn't sleep.
She kept replaying the last message she'd sent him, wondering if her words had sounded desperate, or worse — like goodbye. It had been three days. She tried to rationalize it again: equipment failure. A minor injury. Exhaustion.
But a darker thought gnawed at her.
What if someone else had heard them too?
The radios she and Theo were using were analog, patched together with scraps and luck — but they weren't encrypted. Anyone with the right knowledge could tune in.
She'd always imagined the silence of the world meant no one was left. That it was just her and Theo and the aching memory of Cal. But maybe... maybe the silence had only made it easier to listen unnoticed.
That afternoon, she climbed to the lighthouse again.
From there, she could see nearly everything: the broken town, the edges of the bay, and the long, black streak of road that hadn't seen headlights in months. The wind had stripped most signs of the old world away — billboards peeled blank, wires hanging like vines.
She reached the top and set her portable radio down beside the beacon housing. Then she pressed RECORD.
"Theo, I'm going to keep talking. Until you answer. Until I hear you again.
You said the world didn't end all at once. I think I agree. Maybe we're not post-apocalyptic. Maybe we're mid-collapse. And maybe that means some things are still starting while others are ending.
I hope whatever's keeping you silent isn't permanent.
But if it's danger — if someone found you —
I'll find a way to help.
Just tell me how."
She paused. Then whispered:
"Come back."
Theo reached the wildlife outpost just after midnight.
The building was half-buried in snowdrifts, its antenna cracked but mostly intact. Inside, it smelled of mold and machine oil. Shelves were overturned, but there was still power — barely. He wired the backup transmitter to the main grid, bypassed the fried circuit board with copper thread, and set the signal to mask itself as an old emergency channel.
Then he tried again.
"Mara... I'm alive. I had to leave. I heard something — someone.
They know.
About you. About me.
I don't know who they are yet, but they used your name. That means they're listening.
I'm going dark for a few days. Maybe a week.
But I'll find a way to stay in touch.
Whatever happens, don't stop talking. Don't stop writing. You kept me human."
He didn't say goodbye.
He didn't want it to sound like a farewell.
He hit SEND, then immediately packed his bag again. He couldn't stay in one place for too long now. Someone — or something — was listening.
The message reached Mara two days later.
She played it ten times.
She memorized every pause, every breath between his words.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to find him. She wanted to ask him who "they" were — the ones who knew her name.
But mostly, she wanted to keep him safe.
So she did the only thing she could.
She kept recording letters.
"Theo,
I've started painting again. I don't know why. I found some old acrylics in the back of the bakery where no one goes anymore. The colors are terrible — mostly burnt orange and faded teal — but it helps me sit still.
I painted the cliff this morning. The one you said you dreamt about. I added wild sunflowers. They don't grow here, but maybe they will again.
I'll send you a photo if we ever find each other.
Until then, I'll keep painting. Keep writing. Keep waiting.
I'm not going anywhere."
But something in the static had changed.
Sometimes, when she sat beside the receiver after sending a message, she would hear strange clicks. Delayed echoes. Glitches in the white noise.
Once, she swore she heard footsteps. Not in her shed. Not in the world.
But inside the signal.
And then... a voice.
Not Theo. Not human.
Just a whisper.
"He's not who you think he is."
End of Chapter 5