The path to the old radio tower was overgrown, a winding trail of thorns and memory. Abeni moved carefully, flashlight in hand, the journal pressed against her chest like armour. The coordinates had led her here—just beyond the ridge where the trees thinned and the sky opened wide.
The tower loomed above her, skeletal and silent. Rust clung to its frame like old blood, and the wind whispered through its hollow bones. Abeni hesitated. The air felt charged, like the moment before a storm.
She stepped inside the crumbling base. Dust motes danced in the beam of her flashlight. There were remnants of old equipment—dials, wires, a shattered monitor. But in the centre of the room stood something unexpected: a telescope, pointed not at the stars, but at a mirror mounted on the ceiling.
She approached slowly. The mirror was etched with symbols—constellations, equations, and a phrase in her grandmother's handwriting:
"The sky is not above us. It is within."
Abeni touched the edge of the mirror. It was warm.
Suddenly, the flashlight flickered. The monitor sparked to life, static hissing across the screen. A voice crackled through the speaker—faint, distorted, but unmistakably her grandmother's.
"Abeni… if you've found this, then the pact is still alive. You must finish what I started."
The screen went dark.
Abeni stood frozen. The tower hadn't just been a relic—it was a receiver. And now, it was listening again.