The floodwater never fully left.
It just moved inward — through drains, through walls, through sound.
Everywhere we went, the same pulse followed.
Three long. One short. Pause.
Like breath. Like waiting.
Hana said we had to go back.
Back to the first signal.
Back to the tower.
The fields around it were half-drowned.
The metal structure rose from the mist like something half-remembered.
Its red light blinked once every four seconds — the same timing as the chant.
We carried what was left of the gear.
One recorder. Two flashlights.
The rest had burned out or refused to turn on.
The hum was gone.
That was the first wrong thing.
"Feels lighter," Hana said.
She meant the air, but it was true about everything.
The world sounded hollow, like the frequency holding it together had cut out.
We entered the control shack.
Everything inside was wet.
The desks were covered in a fine gray mold that looked like frost.
I touched the console. It hummed, just once —
like a muscle twitching after death.
We turned on the recorder.
For five full minutes: nothing.
Not even wind.
Then, faintly, from the open doorway —
the sound of footsteps in water.
Slow. Careful.
Hana leaned out.
The field was empty, just fog drifting over the floodplain.
She whispered, "Maybe it's echoing from the canal."
I wanted to agree.
But the steps were too close now.
And they stopped right at the door.
We listened.
Not moving.
Not breathing.
Then — a single knock against metal.
And another.
Same rhythm.
Three long. One short. Pause.
The tower's light blinked in perfect time.
The recorder picked up a new sound —
something under the floor, dragging.
A long scrape, like cables being pulled through mud.
The boards flexed.
A wet handprint appeared beside my foot.
Another.
Then another.
The prints were coming up through the wood.
Hana backed toward the console.
"Turn it off," she said.
Her voice shook, but not from fear — from control.
The kind of shaking that happens when you try not to scream.
I reached for the switch.
The moment my fingers touched it, the entire tower flared white.
Every bulb, every diode, every fuse — alive for one blinding second.
Then dark.
The hum returned.
Louder than before.
Not electrical — human.
A thousand throats humming at once.
I turned.
Through the window, the floodplain moved.
The water itself was shifting — rippling in patterns,
like breath distorting glass.
Shapes rose under the surface,
the same faces we'd seen before,
but clearer now, closer,
looking up through the water straight at us.
Hana whispered, "It's them."
I said, "No. It's us."
She looked at me, confused.
The hum cut out.
Silence.
Then the recorder clicked.
"Signal received."
Just one voice this time.
Calm. Male. My own.
The tower lights blinked once more,
and everything outside went perfectly still —
the water, the fog, the air itself.
No wind.
No insects.
No sound.
Only stillness.
Hana reached for my arm.
Her hand passed through the sleeve.
She froze.
"Koy," she whispered.
I opened my mouth to answer —
and the recorder cut to static.
(End of Chapter 9 — "The Tower Again")