Davo sat cross-legged on the cold wooden floor, his back resting against the crumbling plaster wall of their makeshift shelter. Moonlight seeped through a boarded-up window, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and casting jagged shadows that crept across the room like silent, watchful sentinels. A faint breeze wafted in, carrying the scent of damp wood and the lingering hint of smoke from the small fire now reduced to glowing embers.
All around him, his companions slept in exhausted stillness—Emma with her arm draped protectively over a battered satchel of supplies, Jane curled up on a threadbare blanket, Calla and Liora in the far corner whispering in half-sleep before drifting off. Outside, the once-thriving city lay in a state of eerie calm. The wind occasionally rattled broken glass or a sheet of metal debris, echoing through empty streets that had once bustled with life.
But tonight, Davo's mind refused rest. The day's events simmered in his thoughts—the possibilities of a shifting reality, the surge of power he felt whenever he delved deeper into conjuration, and the cryptic knowledge gleaned from the library's texts. He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and turned his focus inward, sinking into the quiet recesses of his own consciousness.
It was a feeling akin to submerging into dark, unknown waters, a slow drift beyond the mundane and into the realm where matter itself became malleable. At first, his awareness brushed against the everyday objects of their rudimentary camp—the low metal drum that had served as a makeshift fire pit, the charred logs now shedding their final flickers of warmth. Then he slipped past that surface layer, letting the external world blur, drawn instead to the tangled swirl of energies and forces that lay beneath everything.
He had practiced tapping into the fabric of creation before, but something about this night—perhaps the hush of the deserted city or the hush in his own heart—allowed him to with increase focuses. The transition came in waves: first the hum of static in his mind's eye, then the swirl of color and motion representing the most basic forms of matter. He visualized molecules shifting in ceaseless dance, bonds whispering with ephemeral pulses of energy.
Gradually, he probed deeper still. Down at the quantum level, reality sprawled like a boundless and ever-changing tapestry, woven from the threads of probability and chance. Particles flickered into and out of existence with an almost mischievous glee, while electrons blurred around nuclei in patterns that defied everyday logic. The air felt thick, as though he were navigating an alien ocean filled with drifting shapes and swirling currents of potential. Each breath he took seemed to resonate with the push and pull of atomic bonds forming and fracturing all around him.
As he roamed this quantum landscape, he remained acutely aware of one phenomenon in particular: quantum entanglement. The notion still filled him with mingled awe and apprehension—particles so mysteriously linked that a change in one instantly mirrored in the other, regardless of distance. Einstein had once called it spooky action at a distance, but for Davo, it was more like glimpsing the hidden architecture behind reality's mask.
He concentrated, sifting through the chaos in search of those elusive pairs. A faint crackle of energy prickled at his senses whenever he neared them—tiny flares of impossibility, where logic twisted upon itself. Some were close, a few centimeters or meters apart, while others seemed to stretch far beyond his immediate reach, tethered to something distantly out of sight.
His breath caught when he found one particular pair: a duo of particles moving in an exquisite dance of synchronization. The entangled state was so pronounced it felt like a continuous vibration in the space between them. Normally, natural entanglement arose from cosmic coincidences or specific physical processes, but this pair felt… orchestrated. A subtle pattern of pulses in their waveforms suggested an intention behind their bond, like a hidden hand choreographing their unity.
A shiver ran through him. If someone, or something, had engineered this entanglement, then the old theories of faster-than-light communication might not be mere speculation. Perhaps, instead, they were the hushed truth. His heart pounded with the realization. Could there be a distant intelligence, invisible to the naked eye, using entanglement as a cosmic thread to eavesdrop or even to speak?
Davo inhaled, narrowing his focus, attempting to tug—ever so gently—at that entangled connection. The quantum fields rippled under his mental touch, their fractal patterns shifting in subtle, mesmerizing ways. He was no scientist by traditional measure, but the conjuration training had given him a strange, intuitive grasp of matter's deeper layers. If communication was possible, how might he signal back?
He recalled the book's cryptic references—entangled systems might allow for correlation, but not direct messaging. Yet the lines between theoretical limits and practical feats had blurred ever since the world started unraveling. People no longer aged or died the same way. Technologies once unstoppable had fizzled out as if overshadowed by something else. Perhaps the old rules no longer applied, or maybe new forces had overruled them.
He tried to send a mental push, a quiver of intent through that entangled bond. The fields answered with a faint shimmer, barely perceptible—like a chord plucked in a cosmic symphony, resonating across immeasurable space. For a heartbeat, he sensed something in return. Not a voice, not a vision, but a presence. An acknowledgment.
His pulse raced, hope and fear mingling. Was it just his imagination? Or had some distant watcher truly felt his nudge? This evening was rife with so many possibilities that it threatened to overwhelm him. He forced himself to remain calm, absorbing each minuscule clue with patience. The swirling quantum realm responded to every flicker of doubt, every surge of excitement, in ways he didn't fully comprehend.
Then, the link shimmered—a tiny, rippling distortion that traveled along the invisible thread. To the uninitiated, it was nothing, but to Davo, it was a sign. He felt it like a hush of air across his neck, a subtle shift in the entangled wavefunction. His throat tightened, adrenaline flooding his veins.
He lingered there, maintaining the precarious balance required to observe. If he pushed too hard, the entanglement might collapse. If he stepped back, he might lose the chance to glean more. So he hovered in that fragile tension, mind racing. If an intelligence was behind this, how had it orchestrated such complex changes in the world? And why?
Outside, a muffled clang of metal resonated through the silent city, perhaps a loosened sheet of iron swaying in the wind. The faint sound reminded him that he was still in the realm of the living, in a battered city overshadowed by a puzzle bigger than any conjuration lesson. He inhaled slowly, savoring the moment, the knowledge that the quest for answers drove him more than ever now.
Davo inhaled slowly and steadied himself. How did one speak in a realm beyond words, beyond even typical symbols? Scientific speculation pointed to mathematics as the universal language. Perhaps that was a starting point. He envisioned prime numbers, that fundamental progression 2, 3, 5, 7, 11… a cosmic handshake often cited for first-contact scenarios.
He shaped a signal—an attempt at a quantum wave manipulation—emanating from the entangled link. It manifested as a series of pulses, each representing a prime number. He counted them in his head, directing the flow of energy in the manner conjurors used to shape matter, but now applied at a microscopic, subatomic scale. Even in this precarious realm, he was no novice. The pulses were crisp, deliberate.
One. Silence. Two. Silence. Three. Five. Seven.
He paused, reading the field for any reaction. At first, there was nothing. Just the normal background chatter of the quantum world. But then, a flicker—like a timid echo. Something changed in the entangled pair, a micro-pulse that might otherwise be dismissed as random. But Davo recognized it as a pattern, a wave that didn't align with the usual noise. It responded, not in prime numbers, but in a strange harmonic sequence, an oscillation foreign to him.
His heart pounded in his chest. He forced his breathing to remain even, determined not to break focus. The reply was faint but sure, as though testing him. It reeled him in, daring him to continue. And so he did. He sent a Fibonacci sequence next: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8… The pulses were carefully timed, each wave shaped by his mind.
At once, the intangible conversation seemed to spark with life. The entity—if that's what it was—answered with an even more complex pattern, one Davo recognized only as geometry beyond standard human classification. Perhaps it was hyperdimensional encoding or an advanced version of fractal mathematics. Each pulse felt like a question, or a clue, to something grand.
He pressed on, carefully shaping his pulses to reflect new sequences: powers of two, binary expansions of Pi, every trick he'd gleaned from half-remembered academic texts or speculative contact scenarios. The feedback became more consistent, more certain, as though a mutual understanding was forming. Yet he couldn't fully parse the meaning. Was it friendly? Was it a cold intelligence merely curious about the source of these pulses?
He didn't know. But the sense of bridging a cosmic gap drove him onward. After what felt like hours, his mind began to tire. The throbbing in his temples reminded him that no matter how extraordinary these powers might be, his body was still human. He needed rest.
His signals slowed, becoming gentler, less dense. The responding pulses grew softer in kind, as if whoever—or whatever—shared his fatigue. It felt almost tender, two minds reaching from unimaginable distances, locked in cautious exploration. The final wave that reached him was faint, yet not quite a goodbye. More like a promise to resume later.
He let out a long, trembling breath, opening his eyes to see the meager glow of the fading fire. The old house was still otherwise silent, the others asleep around him in various piles of blankets. The hush felt heavier now, charged with the knowledge of what he'd just done. He had touched a presence across the quantum divide, or possibly a presence had touched him.
His fingers trembled slightly as he pushed himself upright. Outside, a ghostly moon illuminated the deserted city streets through the boarded-up window. For the first time in days, Davo felt a potent mixture of awe and trepidation. Whatever had been on the other end of that quantum tether was real. Intelligent. Possibly ancient. Possibly not from Earth.
But in that moment, as the hush of night weighed on his shoulders, he realized he had at least one advantage: The entity—whoever it might be—didn't seem hostile. Curious, certainly, but not malevolent. And if it was searching for dialogue, then perhaps they were on equal footing. He rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion of the day's teaching and the night's mental gymnastics pressing down on him.
He allowed himself a small smile, uncertain but hopeful. If he'd managed to crack open the door of cosmic communication, tomorrow could bring the next chapter in the wild, unfolding story of the world's transformation. Maybe this unknown intelligence held answers no one else could provide. Maybe not. Either way, the seeds of dialogue were planted. The question was: what would bloom?
Biting back a wave of fatigue, Davo finally stretched out on his makeshift pallet. The final flickers of connection still resonated in his mind, like an unfinished melody waiting to be revisited. He closed his eyes to the hush of the nighttime city, drifting into a sleep as deep as it was uneasy.
And somewhere, across the infinite tapestry of quantum entanglement, something else might have felt that same hush and drifted into its own version of rest—bound now, at least in some small way, to the bright spark of one human's unrelenting curiosity.
--
Davo exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as he scanned the group, waiting for someone to take him seriously. Instead, they sat there, expressions ranging from mild amusement to outright skepticism.
Jane lounged with her hands behind her head, a smirk playing on her lips as if she'd been chuckling to herself the entire time. Across from her, Emma slowly shook her head, lips pressed together, the picture of patient exasperation.
Davo blinked, genuinely baffled. "None of you believe me?" His voice held the unmistakable edge of frustration.
Calla, blunt as ever, barely hesitated. "Correct."
Liora, always the diplomat, rested her chin on her hand and tilted her head. "Let's just say… we remain unconvinced."
Davo scoffed, crossing his arms. "Why would I even lie?"
Emma sighed, rubbing her forehead as if she was preparing for a long argument. "We're not saying you're lying, Davo. We're saying it's—" she made a vague motion with her hands, "—just a little hard to believe that you made contact with aliens overnight."
He threw his arms up. "It wasn't easy!" His irritation sharpened his words. "It took time, effort. You think I just—what? Blinked, and the universe whispered back?" He pushed a hand through his hair, glancing at each of them in turn. "You lot don't even try looking deeper. You're so focused on the practical that you ignore what's right in front of us! This world is different now. We don't understand half of what's happening."
Calla arched a brow. "Like survival?" she asked dryly. "That's our main priority. You know, making sure people don't starve?"
Liora touched Calla's arm, her voice gentle but firm. "When you have tangible proof—something that actually makes a difference—then we'll talk."
Emma shrugged. "Or, and hear me out, older brother—it could all be in your head."
Davo let out a sharp breath and threw his hands up. "Right. Because all the other insane, impossible things that have happened make sense, but this—this is where you draw the line?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Come on! We've seen miracles. We've done miracles. Why is it so hard to believe I made contact with something outside of Earth?"
Jane finally sat up, stretching lazily. "That's exactly why we're skeptical," she pointed out. "There's already too much we don't understand. You adding 'alien pen pals' to the list just makes it worse."
Davo rolled his eyes and stood abruptly. "Fine. I'll prove it. I'm going to pursue this, with or without you."
He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving them to their breakfast. Behind him, he heard Jane chuckle and Emma mutter something under her breath—probably about how he was going to drive himself mad with all this.
Let them doubt. He'd show them.
As he stepped outside, the cool morning air wrapped around him, crisp and fresh after the stillness of the house. The sky stretched pale blue above, the last traces of dawn's golden hue melting into the brightening light. The city stirred slowly, rousing from uneasy slumber. Somewhere in the distance, metal clanged against metal—a blacksmith, or someone repurposing salvaged scrap into something useful.
The road back to the library had become familiar, its winding path lined with remnants of a city that refused to be entirely swallowed by ruin. Here and there, survivors had claimed crumbling buildings, their windows patched with salvaged wood or repurposed fabric, the occasional flicker of candlelight betraying quiet habitation. Smoke curled in thin, lazy tendrils from chimneys, carrying with it the scent of burning wood and something else—perhaps dried herbs or old parchment, fuel for those who had little else to spare. The morning air was cool, tinged with the lingering dampness of the previous night, and the distant clang of metal on metal hinted at industry—someone reforging scraps into something useful.
As Davo approached the library steps, he caught sight of the woman who had first led him through its halls. She stood near the entrance, sleeves pushed up, conjuring objects with practiced ease. Around her, several others were engaged in similar work, their focus intent as small, useful items materialized in their hands—basic tools, bits of woven cloth, even a handful of what looked like dried fruit. This wasn't just survival anymore. It was adaptation. She glanced up as he drew near, arching a brow in silent question. Davo handed her the book he had borrowed. "I need to find another one," he said. She gave a short nod, her attention already shifting back to her work as she gestured toward the library hall. "You know your way." He did. And so, without further exchange, he stepped past the threshold and into the grand, dust-laden silence of the library.
The vast space swallowed him whole, its towering shelves stretching into shadowed recesses, the scent of old paper thick in the air. It was colder in here, the stone walls holding onto the night's chill, but Davo barely noticed as he moved deeper into the labyrinth of knowledge. He had a specific purpose now—a direction. Communication. Specifically, communication with something—someone—not of this world. He wove through the rows of books, fingertips trailing absently over cracked spines, scanning titles that ranged from historical treatises to half-forgotten sciences. It took time, but eventually, he found what he was looking for—a book bound in deep blue fabric, its title faded but still legible: Bridging the Cosmic Divide: Theories on Extraterrestrial Communication.
Davo exhaled softly, pulling the book from the shelf with careful hands. He had expected something more obscure, buried deeper in theoretical physics, but this… this was almost too perfect.
He carried it toward a cluster of aging armchairs near a grand arched window, its fractured glass filtering pale morning light in a mosaic of muted color. The seat was worn but comfortable enough. Settling in, he flipped open the cover, the pages crisp and dry beneath his fingertips. Mathematics. That was the foundation—something he already knew. Prime numbers, Fibonacci sequences, fundamental constants. If there was intelligence out there, numbers were the only universal truth they might share. But mathematics alone wasn't enough. The book proposed something deeper—a system of structured meaning.
Davo's eyes flicked across the text, absorbing the theories: Symbolic Representation. Patterns and geometric sequences used as a framework for meaning, akin to early human cave markings. Signal Modulation. Adjusting the intensity and frequency of pulses to convey layered information, much like Morse code but exponentially more complex. Quantum Correlation. A potential system that utilized entangled particles to transmit simultaneous meaning across vast distances, bypassing conventional time delays. He paused at that last section, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the page. Quantum correlation. That was what he had seen last night.
Davo set the book down on the armrest of the worn-out chair, its weight barely registering against the cracked leather. He shifted, settling himself more comfortably, stretching his legs out until the tips of his boots just brushed against the dusty floor. The library was quiet, save for the distant creak of settling wood and the occasional whisper of wind slipping through the fractured windows. Outside, the world hummed in its strange, altered rhythm—survivors murmuring in the streets, metal scraping against metal as tools found new purpose, fires crackling in hearths reclaimed from the old world.
But none of that mattered now.
He had done this before—just last night. He had sat, let his mind slip beyond the tangible, and sent a pulse into the unseen web of reality. And something had answered.
Today, he was going to try again.
Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly, shutting out the physical world. The worn scent of aged parchment and dust faded into the background, and the distant murmurs of life outside became nothing more than an afterthought. Instead, he reached inward, past the noise of the ordinary, seeking the faint threads that stretched beyond space, beyond time.
The entangled particles were there—flickering, waiting, like strands of invisible silk woven into the fabric of the universe. He had found them before. He had sent out a message, and something—someone—had responded.
Now, he had to establish communication.
He began the pulses again—precise, deliberate fluctuations in the quantum state. The same sequence as before.
One. Pause. Two. Pause. Three. Pause. Five.
Prime numbers. A universal fingerprint of intelligence, something no random force of nature would replicate. If the intelligence on the other end remembered him, if it recognized his signal, then this would be the test.
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
Then—the response.
A flicker. A ripple in the entanglement.
The same pattern.
One. Pause. Two. Pause. Three. Pause. Five.
Davo inhaled sharply. It remembered.
He continued, this time altering the sequence slightly—introducing the Fibonacci series. A subtle shift in complexity, a way to gauge the level of understanding.
One. One. Two. Three. Five. Eight.
A pause.
Then, a response.
One. One. Two. Three. Five. Eight.
Davo felt his pulse quicken. It was no longer just mirroring him. It understood. It was communicating.
Encouraged, he pushed further.
He adjusted the pulses again, introducing more advanced mathematical concepts—fractions, ratios, the golden ratio. He mapped out simple equations in pulses, waiting after each one.
The entity on the other end responded in kind, mirroring, then adjusting—sometimes correcting him, sometimes adding something new. The responses were becoming faster, more complex.
It was learning.
No, they were learning. Together.
He sent a new pattern—basic geometry. A single pulse for a point. Two for a line. Three for a triangle. Four for a square.
For the first time, the response changed.
It didn't just echo. It sent something different.
Five.
Davo frowned. He hadn't sent five. That wasn't a shape he had indicated.
Then it clicked.
A pentagon.
His breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't just intelligence. This was an intelligence that was anticipating the pattern, building upon it. Communicating not just in numbers, but in concepts.
They were establishing a language.
Over the course of the next hour—or maybe more; he had lost track of time—the exchanges deepened. The pulses became more intricate. He introduced the concept of symmetry, and the entity responded by sending back sequences that suggested mirrored structures. He sent simple equations, and it replied with variations—sometimes correcting, sometimes expanding.
This wasn't just random acknowledgment. It wasn't just a response.
It was a conversation.
Davo sat back, rubbing his temple, his mind buzzing with the weight of what was happening. He had reached across an invisible gulf, through the fabric of reality itself, and now—now he wasn't just reaching.
Something on the other side was reaching back.
And for the first time, he realized that whatever was out there wasn't just listening.
It was trying to understand him too.
Davo remained motionless, his body an anchor in the worn-out chair, his mind adrift in the vast, unseen currents of quantum entanglement. The library around him faded into irrelevance—the fractured moonlight spilling through the broken windows, the scent of aging paper and dust, the distant shuffle of nocturnal movements from survivors beyond these walls. None of it mattered.
He was elsewhere.
The pulses continued, their rhythm growing more intricate as he worked late into the night. What had started as simple sequences of prime numbers had evolved, shifting into Fibonacci progressions, geometric representations, and increasingly complex mathematical relationships. Each pulse he sent was met with an equally precise response, mirroring and expanding on the patterns he introduced.
They were communicating.
Not just in repetition, not just in mimicry, but in a structured exchange—refining, testing, learning from one another.
Davo adjusted his approach, introducing binary operations. He sent basic arithmetic:
1 + 1 = 2.
2 + 2 = 4.
3 + 3 = 6.
The response was immediate. The entity—whoever or whatever it was—understood. It replied with its own equations, mirroring his intent but introducing variations. Some of the responses corrected errors he hadn't made—deliberate traps he had set to gauge whether this intelligence was simply mirroring or truly thinking.
It was thinking.
A thrill ran through him. This was more than just sending pulses into the dark; this was structured, progressive communication. A system was forming, a framework. They were building a language.
As the hours passed, the exchange grew more sophisticated. He introduced basic algebraic relationships, and the entity responded with sequences that suggested an intuitive grasp of the same principles. It was as if they were learning together, each new message pushing the conversation forward.
At some point, he realized he was no longer leading—only participating.
The entity had begun to send pulses unprompted, presenting him with sequences and patterns of its own design. It was testing him.
Challenging him.
Davo furrowed his brow, his fingers twitching slightly against the armrest as he analyzed the incoming pulses. The entity had sent a sequence he recognized—a standard mathematical identity—but it had altered one part of the equation, as if asking: Do you see what I see?
He did.
He sent a corrected version, then followed with a new equation, deliberately ambiguous, to see how it would respond.
The reply came swiftly—an adjustment, a clarification.
Davo exhaled sharply. They weren't just establishing communication anymore.
They were negotiating meaning.
It was happening.
His mind felt stretched, filled with questions, theories, and possibilities. Could this entity understand symbolic representation beyond mathematics? Could they bridge the gap from numbers to concepts? Could they move beyond the framework of equations and into language itself?
He was ready to find out.
Davo hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly against the armrest. His mind, which had been operating in precise, mathematical sequences for hours, now had to grapple with something far more complex—meaning.
He had spent so much time establishing a foundation, building a bridge of numbers and patterns, but now he was trying to cross it.
His first true question.
It wasn't easy to structure it within the mathematical framework they had painstakingly developed. Every number, every sequence had to be shaped with intent, a careful dance of logic and inference. He wasn't asking for an equation now. He was asking for purpose.
What do you want?
The pulses stretched between them, lingering in the unseen fabric of reality. For the first time, there was a long pause. No immediate response. No mirrored equation. The entity—or entities—on the other end were considering. Processing.
Davo sat still, his breath slow and measured.
When the response finally came, it was fragmented at first. He had to work through it, piece it together across several exchanges, refining and reshaping it until the meaning became clear.
Help. Aid. Earth.
Davo's fingers curled into a loose fist against his knee. He exhaled, leaning back into the chair, staring up at the shadowed ceiling of the library. His body was exhausted, his mind stretched thin, but the weight of that answer pressed into him.
Help.
Was it a plea? An offer? A warning?
Or was it something else entirely?
He rubbed his temples. It was a good answer—if he could trust it. But that was the problem, wasn't it? He had no way of knowing if he was truly understanding them, if their intentions aligned with what he assumed. The language they had built was still primitive, a skeletal structure barely strong enough to hold meaning. They needed more.
He needed more.
Davo sighed, then sent one last pulse—an acknowledgment of departure.
The response came almost immediately. A confirmation. A mutual signing-off.
He lingered for a moment, letting his mind slowly withdraw from that strange, silent connection. It felt like surfacing from deep water, his senses gradually returning to the present—the coolness of the library air, the distant crackle of a dying fire, the faint, rhythmic sound of the wind shifting through shattered windows.
For a long while, he just sat there, his gaze unfocused, his thoughts circling the same problem.
They needed a more structured vocabulary.
He muttered it aloud, shaking his head. "We're going to need a hell of a lot more words."
The problem was clear, and so was the path forward—it was going to be slow. A grind. They had taken a step, but there were miles left to go.
His stomach twisted, and he realized just how drained he was. He conjured a small, dense cube of food—basic sustenance, packed with nutrients but utterly devoid of flavor. He took a bite, chewing absently as his mind continued to work through the implications of what had just happened.
By the time he glanced up again, the library was steeped in darkness. He hadn't realized how much time had passed.
Davo exhaled, shaking his head. "Guess I'm sleeping here tonight."
He leaned back, letting exhaustion pull at his body, his thoughts still buzzing with possibilities.
Tomorrow, he would push further.