The Devil’s Triangle

One by one, voices disappeared.

A question unanswered. A truth unwelcome. A warning unheard. Each pulled beneath the surface, swallowed by the tide of the next story—muffled, distorted, then lost.

Some were removed outright, their names erased, their words scrubbed from record. Others remained, but their voices grew faint—crowded out, buried beneath louder, emptier echoes. The wise learned to speak carefully. The fearful chose not to speak at all.

What remained was carefully arranged. Headlines aligned. Narratives adjusted. The past was not erased but recalibrated, softened into something more convenient, more compliant. What had once been fact now flickered—unsteady, its edges blurred by deliberate doubt.

The signal still pulsed, steady as ever. But it no longer guided—it misdirected, drawing attention to what was meant to be seen while everything else faded from view. The truth was still there, buried beneath the waves, unreachable, unspoken.

And those who saw clearly? They did not resist. They kept the signal steady, the waters still. No voices needed to be silenced when they could simply be drowned out.