Signals & Static

Pattern Recognition

By the time he hit the sidewalk, the evening air felt too sharp, like it had corners. His head buzzed with that familiar post-social crash. a cocktail of overanalyzed moments, emotional noise, and secondhand embarrassment for things he maybe didn't even do.

Did I talk too much?
Did he like the sound game or was he just tolerating it?
Why the hell am I thinking about the way he says numbers?
He pulled his phone from his pocket, opened a new note, and started typing without thinking:

"Santa likes static. Not metaphorically like, actual vinyl hiss. Finds it comforting. Calls it consistent. I get that."

Another thought struck him.

"He listens to the world in frequencies. I listen in colors. That has to mean something, right?"

Perth stopped walking.

He realized then, for the first time in days, his thoughts weren't racing ahead or collapsing in on themselves. They were... focused.

Not frantic. Just curious.

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

Back at his apartment, he grabbed his sketchbook—the one he hadn't touched since the creative burnout started. He flipped past the blank pages, past the dragons, past the half-finished typography tests.

On a fresh sheet, he sketched something simple: two parallel waveforms. One jagged, one smooth. Moving toward the center of the page. Slowly syncing.

Then, below them, he wrote in soft pencil:

"Some static is just a signal waiting to be understood."

He stared at it.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn't hate what he made.
________

Meanwhile at Santa's Apartment. 8:37 p.m. Santa always changed clothes first.
Wool sweater off. Soft long-sleeve cotton shirt on. Grey. No tags.

He set the thermostat to 21°C, dimmed the lights to 60%, and pulled the blackout curtain exactly halfway. He used a weighted blanket but only during winter months. Now it sat folded on the back of his couch in perfect thirds.

He exhaled once.
It had been a good day.

Good meant. no meltdowns, no change in routine, no unexpected sensory assaults. And yet... something had shifted.

He sat cross-legged on the floor beside his bookshelf—not because it was comfortable, but because it was the most acoustically balanced spot in the room. His noise log was already open. a spreadsheet where he tracked sound triggers, comfort levels, and patterns of response.

He reached for his headphones, opened his White Noise app, and clicked on "Vinyl Static – Low Hum Version."

The hiss filled his ears. Soft, textured, steady.

And yet this time, he didn't just think of the sound.
He thought of how Perth had smiled when he said, "You like static?"

Not judgmental. Not dismissive.
Just... curious.

Santa tapped his fingers against his knee. Once. Twice. Then he did something unusual.

He opened his messaging app.

Typed:
"You mentioned water molecules and sound. Is that a real study or were you being metaphorical?"

Then deleted it.

Then retyped it.

Then stared at it.

He didn't send it.

But he didn't delete it either.

⸻

At Perth's apartment, around 9:12 p.m.
Music played through his speakers—not loud, but layered. Perth had a playlist for every mood, and this one was labeled.

"Focus, but like, with feelings."

The apartment was a cluttered haven of creative chaos: mismatched mugs, washi tape, tangled cords, paint tubes without caps. A whiteboard near the kitchen had a list titled.

"Things I Swear I'm Gonna Finish"

Number three was: Call therapist back.
Number five: Sleep like a real person.

He hadn't checked either off.

Instead, he was on the floor in sweatpants, surrounded by loose sketches, trying to capture the feel of Santa's voice without turning it into a caricature.

He'd drawn sound waves before. But now he was experimenting—adding visual textures, static, loops, fragments of equations, subtle arcs that resembled speech patterns. Things he couldn't explain but could feel.

A soft buzz. His phone.

He grabbed it like it might evaporate.

Santa:
"You mentioned water molecules and sound. Is that a real study or were you being metaphorical?"

Perth grinned.

Perth (typing):
"Real study. I'll send you the link. It's called cymatics. Sound physically changes matter. It's like magic. But make it science."

...pause...

Perth (follow-up):
"Also, didn't expect you to text. Pleasantly surprised. Do you like texting or is this a once-a-month socially acceptable ping?

The read receipt appeared.

Perth waited.

Then..

Santa:
"I dislike calls. Text is efficient. Responses may be delayed by internal processing time."
Perth laughed. God, he liked this guy.
He tapped out one more message.

Perth:
"Understood. I also reserve the right to send unsolicited sound ratings and weird questions about sensory stuff. You've been warned."

Santa didn't respond immediately.

But five minutes later, a new message appeared.

Santa:
"Accepted."