The Language of Static

They tell us the universe is not silent.

Between galaxies, beyond the reach of every telescope,

beneath the oldest light, there is a quiet hum.

Not music. Not a language.

Just static.

A signal older than memory.

Older than names. Older than the first voice

to ever whisper into the dark.

It has been traveling

since before there was anyone to hear it.

Scientists call it background radiation,

the fading echo of a beginning

too vast to imagine. But I have always wondered

if that is only part of the story.

What if static isn't the sound

of something ending,

but something still speaking?

Perhaps every laugh leaves an imprint.

Perhaps every prayer continues long after

the lips fall silent.

Perhaps every goodbye refuses to disappear.

Perhaps the empty chair isn't empty.

Perhaps abandoned houses aren't haunted

by ghosts, but by conversations

that never found an ending.

Sometimes,

when the wind crosses an open prairie,

it carries a sound that feels almost familiar.

Not words. Not voices.

Just enough to make you stop walking

and look over your shoulder.

The old radio finds it too.

Between stations, beneath the crackling hiss,

there are moments when the static

almost becomes a sentence.

Almost.

Close enough to make your pulse quicken.

Close enough to make you wonder

who is trying so desperately to be heard.

Maybe nothing is ever truly gone.

Maybe every life leaves behind

a frequency too faint

for instruments,

yet somehow loud enough

for the lonely.

So when the world fills with static,

I no longer reach to change the station.

I listen.

Because somewhere between the stars,

between memory and silence,

something is still speaking.

And sometimes, late at night,

I can't help but wonder

if it has finally learned my name.