January 1941. A young Werner Pfennig dreams about the crude radio he salvaged back home, and the Frenchman’s broadcasts that would always begin in media res. When science was still this arcane, almost holy study. Before radars and ballistics. Jutta’s words echo in his head. “He sounds rich. And lonely. I bet he does these broadcasts from a huge mansion, big as this whole colony, a house with a thousand rooms and a thousand servants.”.

As he listens intently, forever young, somewhere, lost in the fresh static snow, are two signals singing a duet, one an octave above the other.

All the Light We Cannot See, Anthony Doerr. Fresh Static Snow, Porter Robinson.

You’d fit perfectly with me

We’d end loneliness,

Melt this curse away

Though I’ll never know your name

I’ve cried for you the same.