a signal drifting through drowned infrastructure
you drift through corridors of salt and signal. the tide carries fragments of code — half-remembered, half-dissolved.
beneath the waterline, every transmission becomes a whisper. the network breathes in tidal rhythms.
you notice the pattern — hexagonal repetitions in the current, each one slightly warped by pressure and time.
the signal finds you in the space between breathing. not a message — a presence.
in the end, there is no arrival. only the recognition that you have always been here — suspended in the blue space between transmission and reception.
the signal was never meant to arrive