Dawn broke slowly, painting the sky in hues of gold and lavender. Abeni stood at the edge of the tower, watching the horizon. The transmitter was silent now. The journal was gone. But the stars above pulsed gently, like a heartbeat.
She felt lighter—not because she had answers, but because she had closure.
She walked down the hill, past the trees, past the village, past the places that had once felt too small. She carried nothing but the memory of light.
At the edge of the field, she looked up and whispered:
"Thank you."
Somewhere, in a place beyond time, a voice whispered back:
"We heard you."
And with that, Abeni stepped into the morning, the sky above her alive with letters only she could read.