The radio crackled again the next morning.
Same voice.
Same strange language.
Still no code, no coordinates, no orders.
Just sound.
Proof of life.
---
Yul was sitting with his hand on the dial, staring at the console as if it might answer a question he didn't know how to ask.
Tae-Jun stood behind him, notebook closed, heart pounding.
Because the real question wasn't "Can they hear us?"
It was:
> "Do we want them to?"
---
Tae-Jun looked at Yul.
> "If we send a signal… it might not be your people who answer. Or mine. It might be worse."
Yul didn't reply.
Instead, he reached for the transmitter.
Paused.
Looked at Tae-Jun again.
Waiting.
For permission.
For courage.
For a shared decision.
---
Tae-Jun breathed in. Then nodded.
Yul pressed the button.
Spoke three words in his language. Soft. Low.
Then silence.
Nothing answered.
---
Hours passed.
No signal came back.
Yul didn't move from his seat.
Tae-Jun sat against the wall, head back, staring at the ceiling as the rain returned outside.
Then, just as the light began to fade—
A single burst of static.
And a response.
A woman's voice. Calm. Robotic. Translated.
> "Unidentified signal received. Confirm identity. Repeat: confirm identity."
---
Yul's hands trembled slightly.
He looked back at Tae-Jun again.
Do we tell them who we are?
---
> Entry Fifteen.
We reached out.
Now someone's reaching back.
I don't know if we opened a door or painted a target on our backs._
But we made a choice._
We chose not to disappear.
---
That night, they slept with the radio between them.
It didn't speak again.
But it didn't need to.
Because now, silence had a shape.
And it was listening.