Elias was an acoustic deep-sea researcher obsessed with a single, cryptic signal he’d recorded decades ago. It was a complex series of clicks and low-frequency hums that defied all known marine biology. It was structured, almost conversational, but completely alien.
His colleagues dismissed it as seismic activity or equipment malfunction, but Elias knew better. He spent his life savings building a small, highly advanced one-man submersible to return to the Mariana Trench and record the signal again, closer this time.
He descended into the crushing darkness. The pressure gauges screamed warnings, the hull groaned. He activated his long-range hydrophones. Silence, save for the crackling static of his own systems.
Hours turned into days in his cramped sphere. He was about to give up when his speakers suddenly came alive with a torrent of sound. It wasn’t the single signal from before; it was an entire symphony of communication.
He quickly realized they weren't just communicating with each other. They were talking about him. The sounds changed pitch and cadence when his sub moved. They were observing the observer.
Elias began transmitting simple pulses of sound back, mimicking their rhythm. The ocean floor went silent. Then, one voice boomed through his speakers with a clarity that shocked him: a long, complex, rolling sound that Elias instinctively understood as a question: WHY ARE YOU SO LOUD AND BRITTLE?
It wasn't a language of words, but of pure empathy and imagery.
Elias panicked, flooding his ballast tanks and rocketing toward the surface, leaving his expensive equipment behind.
He reached the surface, gasping for air, the sun blinding him. He never published his findings. The world wasn't ready to know that the vast, silent ocean wasn't silent at all, and that whatever lived down there thought of humanity as loud, fragile visitors. He lived the rest of his life quietly on land, always listening to the sound of the rain, wondering what they were saying about him now.
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