Page 68 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Art went still.

“That's not...” He swallowed. “You remember that phrase.”

“You taught it to me. Said it means being glad someone's in your life.”

“It does.” His voice had gone rough. “It means exactly that.”

“Then I meant it exactly that way.”

The cigarette trembled slightly in his fingers. He took a drag, exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the grey sky above us.

FOURTEEN

WORDS IN THE DARK

ART

Lights dimmed to preserve night vision for those monitoring wireless sets, the long room became a cave of shadows and amber glow. Overhead bulbs reduced to bare minimum, replaced by small desk lamps that created pools of yellow warmth against vast stretches of dark. Outside, snow pressed against the blacked-out windows, and inside, six of us worked in near-silence broken only by the crackle of radio static and the soft scratch of pencils on paper.

Two hours into the overnight shift, ten more to go until dawn released us.

My desk lamp cast just enough light to read intercepts without destroying my ability to see in the dim. Muscle memory guided my hands through the familiar motions: transcribe the encoded text, map letter frequencies, test substitution keys, translate from chaos into meaning. Brain settling into that focused state where time became fluid and the outside world dissolved into irrelevance.

Hyperfocus. Ruth called it hyperfocus, said it like a diagnosis instead of just the way my mind worked when properly engaged.When work was good, when patterns revealed themselves at the perfect pace, hyperfocus was bliss. Pure flow state. Hours passing like minutes.

A paper airplane landed on my desk.

I blinked at it, confused. Looked up to find Noor grinning at me from across the room, already folding another sheet from what looked like a discarded intercept log.

She launched the second plane. It nosedived halfway and crashed into my pencil cup.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, acutely aware of the other night shift workers.

“Getting your attention. You've been staring at that same bloody line for ten minutes.” She stood, stretched, wandered over with the casual air of someone taking a break. When she reached my desk, she didn't sit. Just leaned against it, arms crossed. “Fancy a walk? My eyes are crossing from all this static.”

“I should finish?—”

“You should get some air before you vibrate yourself into another dimension. Your leg's been going like a sewing machine for the past hour.” She said it matter-of-factly, without the careful concern Ruth always used. “Come on. Five minutes. The intercepts will still be here when we get back, tragically.”

She was already moving toward the door, and after a moment's hesitation, I followed. Outside, the cold hit like a slap, but it helped clear my head. Noor pulled out a cigarette, lit it, took a long drag.

“So,” she said, exhaling smoke into the frozen air. “Tom.”

My stomach dropped. “What about him?”

“Oh, don't play innocent. You're terrible at it.” She took another drag, studying me with the same sharp attention she gave to radio frequencies. “You fancy him. Obviously. Thequestion is whether you're going to do anything about it or just pine from a distance like a tragic Victorian poet.”

Heat flooded my face despite the cold. “I don't?—”

“Art. Please. I've watched you trip over your own feet because he walked into the room. I've seen you smile at absolutely nothing because he said something that was barely even a joke. You're not subtle.” She wasn't being cruel, just honest. “And before you spiral into panic, I'm not judging. I'm just wondering if you're actually going to live a little or if you're going to let fear win.”

“It's not fear, it's?—”

“Prison? Death? Social ruin?” She waved her cigarette dismissively. “Yeah, I know the stakes. My uncle's queer. Got arrested last year. They destroyed him.” Her voice went harder. “So I'm not naive about what you're risking. But I also know that my uncle's biggest regret isn't getting caught. It's all the years he didn't live because he was too scared to try.”

I stared at her, words stuck in my throat.

“Look,” she continued, softer now. “I'm not telling you to be reckless. But I am telling you that life's too short and this war's too long to spend every moment pretending you don't want what you want. Especially when what you want looks at you like you're the only person in the room who matters.”