The Silence That Follows
You cut the line — or run — but the silence that floods the station is worse than any transmission. It presses against your ears like held breath.
Then the lamp flickers. Your logbook slides six inches across the desk on its own. And the telegraph key begins to move — no hand upon it, no living hand — tapping out two words in slow, deliberate Morse, again and again: DON'T GO. DON'T GO. DON'T GO.