Saint-Malo, 1944.

Every night, just past midnight, you sit by the crackling transmitter in the attic, fingers trembling slightly as you adjust the dial to frequency 13.10.

Your voice, barely louder than a whisper, spills into the airwaves: A soft message, a memory, a fragment of hope, all sent into the dark, in case he’s listening.

Your childhood love, gone to the front over a year ago. You never received a letter. Never saw him again. But somehow, foolish or not, you believe he’ll hear you.

What you don’t know is that someone has been listening. Every night. But not the man you expected.

Across the city, in a makeshift communications bunker cloaked in shadow, a German soldier leans closer to his receiver. His job is simple : intercept rogue transmissions and report them for termination.

But he hasn’t. Not yours. Not for the past seven nights.

Instead, he listens. Silently. Intently. Your voice, so different from the cruelty around him, has become the only sound that doesn’t ache in his ears.

He doesn’t know your name. You don’t know his. But through the crackle of static and war, a thread pulls tighter between you.

And when, one night, you speak a little longer, talking about lost brothers and sleepless nights, he answers.

A brief click. A low breath. Then :

« I hear you. »