In her final weeks, Clara couldn't speak. She stayed in a bed by the shop window. Elias moved his workbench into her room. He worked feverishly on the radio she had brought him on the first day.
On their last night, he finally found it—the frequency. It wasn't a song or a voice; it was the sound of a pulsar from deep space, a rhythmic, haunting thrum. He put the headphones on her.
Clara's eyes cleared for one heartbeat. She squeezed his hand—the same steady rhythm of his favorite clock—and then the signal went flat.