There once was a pilgrim who saw, high on a hill above the river, an old watchtower crowned with antennas.
Its window glowed. Its mast reached into the stars. Cables climbed its walls like vines, thick and green and humming.
Always awake.
Always listening.
Always online.
Such a tower, the pilgrim thought, must have a watchman. And a watchman who listens to the whole world must know something worth hearing.
He climbed the path. He knocked at the small door at the tower's foot.
No watchman came. Only the hum of a box somewhere inside, and a small black router on the battlement, blinking blue at the moon.
He followed the cables with his eyes. They went up. They went down. Most of them, as far as he could tell, went into the ivy and simply stayed there.
The tower was transmitting. It just was not saying anything.
And slowly, the pilgrim understood.
Being online is not the same as having something to say.
Being reachable is not the same as being open.
A tall mast is not a tall tale.
This is no lighthouse of knowledge. No oracle in a tower. No keeper of the signal.
It is a tower with antennas.
Nothing more.
So, Traveler —
There is no watchman here.
No broadcast for you.
No message hidden in the noise.
The signal is strong. The content is absent.
Go home, pilgrim.
And the tower hummed on, to no one in particular.