The next morning, Abeni returned to the tower with a backpack full of tools, wires, and determination. She had spent the night studying the journal's diagrams, cross-referencing them with old schematics she found in the village library. The transmitter was salvageable. The mirror was cracked, but the telescope still worked.
She set to work, her hands moving with purpose. She rewired the power source, replaced the broken dials, and cleaned the lens until it gleamed. The tower groaned as it came back to life, like an old beast waking from a long sleep.
She aligned the telescope with the coordinates from the letter. The stars above shimmered faintly, as if aware of her presence.
Then she sent the first pulse.
The tower vibrated. A low hum filled the air. Lights flickered across the horizon—not random, but rhythmic. Abeni grabbed her notebook and began decoding the pattern. It was Morse code. The stars were responding.
"We hear you."
She gasped. The message was short, but unmistakable. The sky was listening again.
But the transmission was incomplete. The journal spoke of a final key—something personal, something powerful. A memory her grandmother had buried.
Abeni knew where to look.