"I think the color was blue, but not like the sky..."
A pause, then the clinking of glass. "It was more like an echo from a friend's memory."
"Do you remember when we used to sit under the old elm tree?"
Silence, then a distant train horn, as if a response from an unseen future.
"There's a frequency in the rain, like a hidden radio."
Her voice was soft, absorbed by the sound of droplets falling on cracked pavement.
Somewhere in the static, we all find our stories. Patterns of Noise
Whispers of a world we can't see, messages buried in the sand.