That night, sleep came in fragments. Abeni dreamed of fire—of her grandmother standing beneath the tower, clutching a photograph as the sky burned above her. In the dream, the photograph turned to ash, and the ashes rose like smoke into the stars.
She woke with a start, heart racing. The attic called to her.
She climbed the stairs and searched beneath the floorboards. Dust clung to her fingers as she pried open a hidden compartment. Inside was a photograph—faded, creased, but intact. A man in uniform, smiling. On the back, in her grandmother's handwriting:
"E.O. — The one who waited."
She returned to the tower and placed the photo in the transmitter's chamber. The monitor flickered. Static hissed. Then, a voice emerged—soft, distant, but unmistakably real.
"Elara… I heard you. I never stopped listening."
Abeni's breath caught. It wasn't just her grandmother's voice. It was his.
The transmission had reached someone. Somewhere.
She stared at the stars, tears streaming down her cheeks. The pact wasn't just a myth. It was a bridge. And now, it was open.