Frequency

A signal that learns you.
A voice you ache for.
Thirty seconds buys hello;
the minutes aren't yours.

Between stations, the static dies to an impossible silence. Then the breathing begins. For three weeks, you've mapped a frequency that knows your pauses, your breaking point, the name you mouth at red lights. Tonight the pattern changes. Thirty seconds buys a hello. Sixty buys a sentence. Ninety buys the laugh you keep in a drawer. After that, the minutes aren't yours. A quiet, second-person analog horror about grief, technology, and the terrible intimacy of being truly heard.

A ghost story in 666 words to thrill and chill.