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Glen’s hand’s shook nervously. The telephone operator’s role gnawed at him. That was not surprising – he had been on it for only a few hours.
And it was an unusual one.
He connected voices, but held onto none. His ears were for others, though others never offered theirs.
Home was for voices to pass, not stay.
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Then, a line opened, before it was supposed to.
A soft click. An uneven breath.
A voice arrived – that should not have existed.
With something missing.
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Glen listened. He paused. He remained still.
What would it mean to be heard? Across time? Across space?
The line hummed. It asked for nothing.
But offered everything.
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The console buzzed. He spoke into it, almost a whisper.
His voice melded with the one on the line. It was hesitant.
Almost careful.
Time froze, for just a second.
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Glen broke out of his reverie. It struck him.
There was only one voice. Rounded. Undiminished
There was no second speaker.
No awkward pause. No him.
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He glared sharply at the console before him. To connect, and not be connected?
An unseen hand, bringing lines together?
Him in silence, and the world, in a cacophony of sound/
He breathed. He would not be thanked.
But he WAS the console. The connection.
He fiddled with the volume knob on the console before him and sighed.
More connections to be made.
They spoke. They listened. They were heard.
Glen remained with them, listening in silence.
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Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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