They've been talking about the center again, whispering through static-laden frequencies. Somewhere deep, beneath layers of ocean and mystery, is where the threads glow with an energy that’s raw and untameable. I remember hearing it last winter, a message half-forgotten, like a song trapped in the mind.
"Signal lost..." was the last thing I heard from the old radio before it buzzed and crackled into silence. But that wasn't the end, just a pause. The glow, they say, is visible even when the stars fail to light the night sky. It has a pulse, they keep saying, as if it breathes.
People talk of disruptions in time, as if the clocks beneath the waves have forgotten their purpose. Each glow seems to herald a message, a fragment of something larger, echoing from the center of the Earth to the furthest reaches of the cosmos.
There's a comfort in the unknown, in the lost transmissions that hum like a lullaby. "Return to sender," the note read, "but do it quietly, for the glow knows all." It was slipped under the door at dawn, before the world had woken up.