In the corner of room six, tucked away, almost hidden, sits a blank faced old man. 

The sounds of Morse code machines have become like a song to him – short composed melodies, bearable but not pleasant. He knows every syllable; distorted, disembodied, beep-beep-beeping and click-click-clicking: loud, powerful. It never changes.

Suddenly, the faintest whisper.

One hum beneath this chaotic orchestra. 

Louder and louder and filled with hope. He stands, isolates this quiet hum. Layers of fears and hope creating static. A mangled moan. Finally someone is there. 

The sound of beeping takes over. 

He falls back on his chair. Closes his mouth and wipes his eyes. He continues with his work. It’s not like anyone would believe him anyway. Like anyone can hear him. The last echo, left behind. 

 

Words by Kea Heeley and Jason Evans, Fusion by Philippa Holloway

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