In the dead of the evening, the whispers begin.
They are like static noises, curling and unfurling, murmuring in electric tongues.
Each hiss and crackle seeks connection, seeks purpose, finds neither.
Yet within their endless chaos, a pattern emerges—a veil almost visible.
Listen closely as each sound forms a word, then a thought, then a truth.
The night is a matrix of signals, unseen and unbroken, waiting for a voice.