The Girl Who Spoke in Code

They thought she was just another voice on the radio. They never realized she was listening back.

In every signal, a story. In every silence, a warning.

In a dusty communication post on the outskirts of Amritsar, Noor sat before an old radio, its dials glowing faintly like dying stars.

She was 26. She spoke softly. And she never said her real name on air.

Every night at 23:07, Noor read coordinates wrapped inside poetry. A few listeners thought she was reciting verses. The others, those who knew, called her The Voice.

But she wasn’t a poet. Not anymore. Not since the border fire that took her brother and the silence that followed.

Noor’s messages weren’t meant for civilians. They were meant for someone she had never met a man who signed every response with the same two letters: A.J.

For six months, they spoke in riddles. He sent her static. She sent him storms. He said, “The wind crosses mountains tonight.” She replied, “Then the river should listen.”

Somewhere between the code and the silence, a kind of trust was born.

Then one night, his frequency went dead.

Noor waited. Ten minutes. Thirty. Three hours. Only static. Static and a faint voice whispering her own name.

The next day, an unfamiliar call sign appeared on her board: “Echo 7 Immediate extraction.”

She froze. No one used those words unless everything had gone wrong.

By dawn, Noor packed her transmitter, burned the station logs, and walked toward the river that divided everything—faith, land, memory.

On the bridge stood a man with a newspaper. Folded neatly, untouched. Inside was a single sentence written in blue ink: “They know your voice.”

She didn’t ask who “they” were. She had learned long ago that names were heavier than bullets.

“Where’s A.J.?” she asked.

The man smiled sadly. “Gone dark. You’re the last signal left.”

Noor nodded once. “Then we make it count.”

That night, she returned to the transmitter one last time. The air crackled. Her heartbeat matched the hum of the current.

“To anyone still listening,” she said quietly, “the sky is clear. The code is alive. And The Voice is not done yet.”

Minutes later, her station exploded in a clean burst of light. No body was found. Only a cracked frequency, repeating three words again and again:

“Still. Listening. Back.”

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