Epilogue
Hissing. Click. Channel switching.
On the screen, a fragment of a soap opera: the heroine sobs by the window, rain beating on the glass. Click.
Cooking show: a chef with a French accent vigorously whips cream. Click.
Sports: a commentator shouts the winning goal. Click.
Weather forecast: map, arrows, clouds. Click.
Financial reports: graphs, numbers, the announcer's voice.
And then - something strange.
Flickering. A slight pinkish tint, as if the TV was receiving an unstable signal. Static. Pulsing. As if someone was interfering. The screen begins to flicker. At first, barely noticeable, then more and more intensely.
Contours are distorted. Colors blur, like watercolors in the rain.
And then - silence.
The screen is completely filled with pink noise. It's uneven, it breathes. There's life in it. From the depths of this color, shapes begin to emerge. Vague. Floating. Like in a fog.
First, the eyes. Two black spots of different sizes.
Then, the mouth. Too wide. Too human to be real. Too alien to be frightening.
She's looking.
Not just at the screen. She sees you.
Curiously. With interest. With that same expression a child has when they first open their eyes and see the world.
She doesn't speak. But if she could, you would hear:
"I'm here. You are too. We are together."
The screen flickers. The image disappears.
All that remains is a faint afterglow on the glass. And the feeling of being watched.
The end?
No.
The beginning.
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