The Link

Ben sat alone in the observatory, the screen’s faint pulse the only sound in the room. For months, he had recorded the repeating sequence, noting patterns, cycles, repetitions. Then, this morning, something shifted.

A thought — almost absurd — crawled into his mind: we are being watched.

Not by accident. Not by some distant, indifferent force. But deliberately, with attention, care, even fascination. The signal wasn’t meant to teach, to communicate, or to warn. It was a window. A lens.

And now he understood — for the first time — why it had been given: to observe us alive, awake, unknowing.

A chill ran down his spine. To reveal it, to broadcast it, to even whisper it… would destroy it. The novelty, the delicacy, the fleetingness of the observation — gone in an instant. Humanity could never know without spoiling the very thing that made it remarkable.

Ben leaned back in his chair. The screen blinked its heartbeat. He stared, awed and small. And for the first time, he felt a strange responsibility: to keep the secret — not for himself, but for the unknown eyes that had made him aware.

The pulse continued, quiet, precise, indifferent… yet alive. And he watched.

Ben’s eyes darted across the panel. The new tap he’d discovered — small, unassuming, almost laughably simple — connected the observatory feed to something else. Somewhere else. Some intelligence was watching.

He traced the lines, checked the data packets. Every sequence, every repetition, had been passing through that tap. They were listening, observing… studying us.

A thought struck him, sharp and electric: What if they don’t want us to know we’re being watched?

The idea stayed with him, growing. If humanity realized, the delicate balance — the novelty, the purity — would collapse. But maybe… maybe he could speak anyway. Quietly. Carefully.

He found the maintenance channel, a hidden lane in the satellite feed that almost no one ever touched. If he transmitted there, it would be subtle, almost invisible. Only the observer would notice.

Ben typed a single line, staring at the blinking cursor:

I know you are watching.

His finger hesitated over the send key. One press. One heartbeat. One acknowledgment. Nothing more.

Then he pressed it.

The feed continued, unbroken. The heartbeat of numbers blinked on the main screen, twenty-three measures, repeating. And somewhere, out there, he felt certain — someone or something had noticed.

For a moment, the room felt impossibly small. And impossibly vast.

Ben leaned back. He hadn’t communicated, really. He had participated in the observation, quietly. The aliens wouldn’t interfere. Humanity wouldn’t know. But he had marked himself as aware — and in that awareness, the universe seemed to pulse just a little differently.

Ben waited. Nothing happened at first. Then the screen flickered — almost imperceptibly — and a line of text appeared on the maintenance channel:

“That’s nice. No one will believe you.”

He stared at it. The message was concise. Dry. Human in its wit.

A shiver ran down his spine. They were aware. They had seen his message. And yet… they hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t explained. Hadn’t altered the signal. Just… acknowledged him.

Ben felt a strange mixture of relief and awe. Relief that the observation continued undisturbed, awe that he had somehow touched the unseen intelligence. And yet, the alien voice — calm, almost playful — reminded him of the impossibility of sharing this with anyone else.

He pressed his lips together, leaning back in his chair. The heartbeat continued on the main feed. Twenty-three numbers, repeating. And now, somewhere out there, someone was quietly amused by him, while humanity remained oblivious.

For the first time, he felt what it meant to be fully known — and entirely unseen by everyone who mattered.

Ben sat back, rubbing his temples. His fingers itched to call someone — a colleague, a supervisor, anyone. But the words wouldn’t form.

Who would he tell? How could he even explain it?

“That’s nice. No one will believe you.”

The message echoed in his mind. Not just the words, but the truth behind them: even if he tried to convince the world, the story would sound insane. A satellite maintenance feed, an alien signal, a single man claiming they were watching him — it was beyond comprehension.

He thought of the news broadcasts, the scientists, the world waiting for an explanation of the 23-measurement signal. They would interpret it, analyze it, theorize. And he… he knew the real story. The private story. The one no one else would ever see.

A strange weight settled on him — part responsibility, part wonder. To share it would destroy it. To keep it would preserve the fragile order of observation.

Ben exhaled slowly. He looked at the blinking numbers on the screen. The heartbeat continued. Somewhere, out there, the observers waited. And he was alone with the knowledge that he had crossed the threshold of awareness.

No one else could ever share this moment with him. And that… was exactly as it should be.

Ben hesitated, fingers hovering over the maintenance channel. He didn’t know what to ask — anything too direct would break the fragile balance. Instead, he typed carefully:

A sign? Something small.

The screen blinked. Then a single line appeared:

SMR. You’ll understand.

Ben froze. SMR — a stock he had been watching, nothing extraordinary, just one among many. And yet… the timing, the context, the impossibility of knowing who — or what — had sent it… made his pulse quicken.

He leaned back. The heartbeat continued on the main feed. Twenty-three measures, repeating with perfect rhythm. Somewhere, far away, the observers had nudged him — a private joke, a tiny token of awareness, no one else would ever see it.

For a moment, Ben felt a connection, fragile but real. The aliens weren’t giving him secrets about the universe. They were giving him… a wink. A playful, enigmatic gift — the novelty remained intact, humanity blissfully unaware.

He smiled faintly. He wouldn’t tell anyone. Not yet. The gift was theirs, and his alone.

He went to his stock portfolio and arranged to buy 100 shares of SMR.