A Conversation with Ash

Your fingers hover over the key, trembling. Then you tap back: WHO ARE YOU? The line hisses — and answers. The Morse comes slowly at first, each letter dragged from somewhere distant and dark, like a man speaking through packed earth. GREER. THOMAS GREER. STATION 7.

The name sits in the air like smoke. You know it from nothing — no record, no rumour — yet the wire insists. Greer transmits again, steadier now, as though your response has fed him something. NOT ACCIDENT. SET. HE STILL WALKS. STILL WORKS THE LINES. The key falls silent, then adds one final word, deliberate as a nail driven home: MURDERER.