Dear Echo,
I never expected a postcard from the void. I've heard stories, old wise tales about shadows casting messages to the living, but you were supposed to be a figment, weren't you? The brass doors creaked open last iteration, and there you were, vibrantly present.
It's 14 clicks past dawn here on the third axis and calmer than usual. The flux tides lap timidly at our shore, almost hesitant. But I digress, the real question arises: Why did you call, and why now?
We must code in dexterous silence, lest more listen. Perhaps I found artifacts during yesterday's exploration— residues from older echoes or a memory behind a blazing hue. Let the patterns devise, long strains of modulation unravel our conversations.
Furthermore, should we consider rendezvous points перенаправление поэмы? Use the paths to the unnamed sectors; I've charted some semblance to where continuity flickers over.
A cascade of time, distorted yet lucid...
Yours across veils,
The Wayfarer