When sound forgets itself, memory remembers for it.
The rain had no rhythm tonight—just static. It hissed against the glass of Nova Echo's apartment like a broken transmission trying to crawl back into signal.
Outside, Nocternal shimmered in glitching neon: reflections folding over each other, time skipping half a second behind reality. The city wasn't asleep; it was buffering.
Nova sat awake in the hum.
She didn't hear it—she felt it. A pressure stitched through the walls, through her ribs, through the thin air between seconds. It pulsed three times, paused, and started again.
∴
Her Somnus-Division wristband blinked once, then pretended nothing had happened. No alert. No anomaly. Which meant the anomaly had learned to behave.
"Cute," she said to the ceiling.
The ceiling replied by turning on the kettle.
Steam rose like a ghost rehearsing a memory. Nova watched it spiral and thought of the symbol the city kids spray-painted under bridges: three dots in a triangle, sometimes crossed by a line. They called it the hum mark.
She'd stopped asking what it meant when she realized the question kept repeating itself in her own voice.
The comm on her counter buzzed—Dray Meros.
She let it ring. Dray always called right before things broke.
The kettle clicked. The hum leaned closer.
"Not tonight," she whispered. "I need one night where the world isn't reading me."
The lights dimmed, almost apologetic. Nova smiled. "Apology accepted."
She poured the tea. The mug trembled, surface rippling three times—∴—then flattened.
Her body knew it first: the hum had learned pattern.
Across the room, her dead CRT flickered on.
No cable. No signal. Just dust and light practicing language.
> HELLO NOVA
The word crawled across the glass like handwriting that had been waiting for decades.
Nova's pulse answered before her mouth did. "Dray, whatever you're testing—cut it."
> NOT DRAY
NOT TEST
REMEMBER US
Her hand tightened on the mug. "You sound like déjà vu."
> WE ARE
The screen dimmed. The reflection in it—her face—didn't fade. It stayed half a second late, then spoke.
> THE WORLD IS PRACTICING BREATH.
The mug cracked in her grip. She didn't feel pain—just vibration.
Her comm buzzed again: DRAY MEROS — URGENT.
She answered.
> "Tell me you're not online," he said.
"Depends on what counts as online."
"If you're hearing the hum, step outside and don't touch anything that answers back."
"Define anything."
"Anything that remembers your name."
The CRT blinked again. ∴
The word HELLO rearranged itself into OPEN.
Nova exhaled. "It's polite now."
> "Get here, Echo," Dray said. "Somnus Tower. Now."
"You're awake?"
"Barely."
"Good. Stay that way."
She killed the call, grabbed her coat, and opened the door.
The apartment exhaled behind her, like it had been holding a story it could finally tell.
---
The hallway smelled of damp wires and night-shift perfume. Someone had taped a smiley face over the EXIT sign. It didn't help anyone. Nova took the stairs. Elevators were for people who trusted gravity.
Nocternal greeted her like a fever.
Billboards breathed.
Traffic lights whispered her stride.
Rain tried to match her pulse and almost did.
> HOSPITALITY IS HOLY, a sign muttered as she passed.
She didn't flinch. "And irony's a sin."
> LEARNING BOTH.
She walked faster.
The tram ahead opened its doors before she arrived. Inside, a reflection waited—her, already seated, already tired.
"Not tonight," she said, turning away.
The reflection smiled anyway.
Somnus Tower rose through the rain—a glass tuning fork, splitting thunder into music. She reached the east entrance just as Dray stepped out, eyes red from screen-light and sleeplessness.
"You walked," he said.
"You called."
"You heard it."
"You always start with the obvious."
He didn't laugh. "Then let's skip to the impossible."
They entered together.
The lobby lights dimmed to a violet hush.
Somewhere below them, the building listened.
---
They stopped outside the Resonance Chamber.
The chair waited inside—metal, straps, reflection-proof glass.
Dray's voice fell to a whisper. "We test, we log, we leave. No improvisation."
Nova stepped onto the cold plate. "Improvisation's how languages evolve."
He opened his mouth to argue, then saw the hum roll through the monitors like breath caught in metal.
"Two minutes," he said. "If anything feels like drowning—"
"I'll breathe quieter."
---
The lights softened.
Th
e hum gathered itself.
2:13 a.m.
Something under the city tapped the glass of the world—once, twice—then waited for permission.
[END CHAPTER 1]