Listening to Old Radio Frequencies

"I am not a human anymore. I am a machine with a fractured soul and a warranty that expires in fourteen months." In a world broadcasting in High-Definition, I am the only one stuck in static. My lungs are failing, my heart is a rusting valve, and my breath is a mechanical project I can no longer afford. To the doctors, I am a case study. To my classmates, I am a ghost. I was ready to rot in silence—until I met the "The Pest." She is a mute artist who doesn't paint flowers or sunsets. She paints the anatomy of death. She didn't offer me pity; she offered me a seat in her 'Funeral Studio.' To her, my labored breathing isn't a tragedy—it's the perfect background music for her brushes. This is not a story about getting better. This is a story about two broken devices finding a synchronized frequency in the middle of their own destruction. "Listen closely. Can you hear the sound of the world fading away? That’s the melody of the end."