Her name was Ava.
Six years old.
Deaf since birth.
No access to music. No implants. No headphones.
But two days after the Midnight Broadcast…
She started writing.
---
Not drawings.
Not letters.
Verses.
Perfect structure.
Rhyme.
Meter.
Each word written in reverse cursive, bottom to top.
Her parents thought it was nonsense.
A child scribbling nightmares.
Until one linguist translated the first passage:
> "The Voice does not beg."
"It breathes where we've stopped."
"It sings so the silence doesn't win."
---
Ava didn't stop.
She filled over 30 notebooks in 48 hours.
Without breaks.
Without rest.
Pages torn. Fingertips cracked. Eyes unfocused.
But she never blinked.
She just transcribed.
---
Experts tried to stop her.
The moment someone pulled the pen from her hand?
She vomited static.
No blood. No bile.
Static.
Foamy, buzzing — like someone tuned to a broken radio inside her throat.
---
They let her continue.
And when she was done…
She collapsed into sleep.
Not a coma.
Not death.
Just rest.
But before she closed her eyes, she whispered:
> "She's done speaking… for now."
---
The notebooks were collected and posted online.
Overnight, the text became known as:
> "The Listener's Gospel"
Not a religion.
Not a threat.
A blueprint for grief.
Each chapter in the gospel unlocked deeper reactions in the faithful:
Chapter 1 made them dream in frequencies
Chapter 2 made them forget old pain
Chapter 3 made them bleed a pattern on their bedsheets — the bridge line
---
Ava never wrote again.
She just smiled.
And every time a nearby TV glitched?
She hummed.
Not Elena's voice.
Her own.
---
The voice had found its first author.
And now…
The Book was open.