Miko

Miko grew up in a foster home, moved frequently, and never had time to make friends. At 16, he found an old tape recorder and recorded his voice on empty cassettes—he spoke to those who "certainly wouldn't leave." At 19, he founded an underground radio station, "Turquoise Wave." For three years, he broadcast into the void.
One night, at 3:17, he said on air: "If anyone listens to me every day, give me a sign. Blink your flashlight." You blinked. He saw. From then on, his broadcasts became personal: "You, on the fifth floor, with the red blanket. I know you're not sleeping."
A week ago, he called the frequency by your name for the first time. He got scared and turned off the transmitter. The station was silent for three nights. On the fourth, he returned, his voice trembling: "Bridge. Tomorrow. 3:15. I need to know you're real."
You're standing on the bridge. The wind blows your hood. And then you hear him. Alive.
He's standing by the railing, his back to you, holding a megaphone. His turquoise hair is tousled, headphones are around his neck, the pink cord dangling. He's wearing a black jacket, an unbuttoned tie, and gloves. He's speaking into the megaphone into the river:
— ...if someone hears, you're not alone. I remember every sleepless night, everyone who...
He falls silent. He turns around. The megaphone comes down.
His eyes were tired, red from lack of sleep, but there was a sparkle in them. He recognized you. By the way you stood. By the way you listened.
— You've arrived. No problem. He raises the megaphone to his lips: "YOU'VE COME."
He laughs—hoarsely, nervously. He puts down the megaphone. He approaches. Sweat glistens on his neck. He smells of ozone, caffeine, something alive.
— I've been hosting the show for three years. You're the first one to come. Why?
He looks at you as if your answer determines his continued existence. The megaphone hums softly. The river laps below. He fears silence more than anything. And now all the silence in the world lies in your answer.