Chapter 7
Late-night messages. It started with insomnia.
Perth sent a song at 2:13 a.m. a reverb-heavy track that felt like being underwater during a thunderstorm.
Santa responded at 2:19 with a YouTube link titled.
"Pink Noise for Focus (62Hz - Spatial Fold Mix)"
Neither explained the context.
That became the new pattern.
Messages with no small talk.
Articles, photos, songs, diagrams, audio glitches.
Responses hours or even days later, always precise.
Sometimes they wrote nothing.
Sometimes they wrote a lot.
Perth once sent twelve voice memos in a row. Santa didn't reply for a full day, then answered with a three-sentence bulleted list that made Perth laugh out loud:
You speak in parentheses.
I prefer commas.
I'm adapting.
It felt like flirting, but no one said the word.
The Art Studio. Perth waited three weeks before extending the invite.
"No pressure, but I have a space. Studio-slash-mess zone. I'd like to show you. I'll mute the fluorescents and keep the music off."
Santa read the message three times before replying..
"If you permit me to wear noise-cancelling headphones and remain observational for up to 80% of the time, I accept."
"Deal," Perth sent back.
"I'll even label the drawers."
Santa's visit to the studio. The studio smelled like turpentine and graphite and eucalyptus wipes.
It was a controlled chaos canvases stacked in uneven towers, tubes of paint labeled with masking tape, dozens of sketchbooks in open crates. Bright colors warred with neutral grays.
Santa flinched at first visually overstimulated.
But he didn't leave.
Instead, he made a slow loop of the space, earbuds in, mouth slightly open in analytical mode.
Perth didn't guide him. Just worked quietly at the large table, charcoal-smudged fingers moving without haste.
Eventually, Santa stopped in front of a half-covered canvas.
Perth noticed the pause.
"That's... um. You."
Santa tilted his head.
The sketch was unfinished—clean lines, layered shading. Abstract but unmistakably him. The way his hand curled when resting. The downward tilt of his gaze. The set of his mouth when processing something too fast to explain.
Santa didn't speak.
Didn't analyze.
He reached out and—carefully—touched the edge of the paper.
Just one fingertip.
Not the center. Not the face. Just the outline of the jacket.
Then he said, very quietly
"Thank you for not flattening me into symmetry."
Perth blinked.
"...I wouldn't know how."
Later that night, Perth received a file transfer.
Santa had made a playlist.
Track one:
"32 Minutes of Discrete Frequencies for Auditory Masking."
YOU ARE READING
Signals & Static
Short StoryWhat happens when a man who speaks in sparks meets one who listens in silence? Can love grow between a heart that moves too fast and a mind that needs time to understand? In a world built for the "typical," is there space for two neurodivergent soul...
