Audio PODCAST

The phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out, squinting at the screen as the sunlight shimmered off its surface. One new voicemail blinked ominously, the sender an unknown number, timestamped today, April 18, 2025. My heart raced a bit as curiosity and unease collided within me. I tapped play, half-expecting a robocall or a wrong number to shatter the moment, but the voice that crackled through the speaker froze me mid-step. It was raspy and laden with urgency, sending chills down my spine. The words were barely coherent, yet there was an unmistakable familiarity in the tone; something primal tugged at my memory, pulling me back to a time I thought I had left behind. Each muffled syllable felt like a haunting echo of the past, forcing me to reconsider the safe distance I thought I had maintained from those old ghosts.

Hello, it’s… well, it’s me. From five years from now, April 18, 2030. I know this sounds insane, but please, just listen. I understand that this message might come off as unbelievable, but the urgency of my situation compels me to reach out to you. The world has changed in ways you can’t possibly imagine. The breakthroughs we’ve dreamed of are now at our fingertips, but they come with unforeseen consequences that we must navigate carefully. Time has a funny way of distorting our perceptions and priorities, so I beg you to consider my words thoughtfully. Your decisions today could alter the trajectory of our futures in ways that will become apparent only when it’s too late.

My own voice, but rougher, edged with a weariness I didn’t yet know, echoed in my ear, reverberating with the weight of untold stories and unspoken fears. I stood in the middle of the bustling sidewalk, people brushing past me in a blur of colors and sounds, their conversations melding into a cacophony that once felt familiar but now seemed distant. The vibrant city’s hum faded as I focused intently on the message, my heart racing with anticipation and uncertainty, feeling as if I was on the verge of an important revelation that would change everything, yet rooted in place, unable to shake the feeling of impending change that lingered in the crisp air.

“I’m using something called SkyNet, a prototype from AI. It’s… complicated, but it lets me send this back to you. I don’t have long—thirty seconds, max. Things are different here. The world’s louder, faster. AI’s everywhere, not always for the better. You’re going to face a choice soon, something about a job, a move, a person. I can’t say more without risking the timeline. Just… trust your gut, not the noise. And don’t ignore the kid with the red backpack. You’ll know when. Please, don’t delete this.”

The message cut off with a faint beep. I stood there, heart pounding, replaying it twice more. My voice, unmistakably, but laced with a gravity I couldn’t fake. I checked the number again—untraceable, no caller ID. A prank? A scam? But how could anyone mimic me so perfectly, down to the slight hitch in my breath when I’m nervous?

Days passed, and the message haunted me. I didn’t delete it. I couldn’t. I started noticing things—job offers piling up, each glossier than the last, urging me to jump into tech startups or corporate gigs. A friend mentioned a job in Singapore, another pushed me to date someone new, someone “perfect.” Choices, just like the voice said. But none felt right. The noise, as the message called it, was deafening—ads, advice, algorithms shoving me toward decisions that didn’t sit well.

Then, three weeks later, I saw him. A kid, maybe ten, weaving through a crowded park, red backpack bouncing on his shoulders. He tripped, spilling a notebook onto the grass. No one else stopped. I hesitated, then jogged over, picking it up. The kid’s eyes were wide, scared, but he mumbled a thanks. Inside the notebook were sketches—intricate, almost futuristic diagrams of machines, labeled “Skynet.” My pulse spiked. I looked back at the kid, but he was already sprinting off, vanishing into the crowd.

I kept the notebook. Didn’t tell anyone. Started digging, quietly. AI’s public records mentioned no SkyNet, but whispers by AI hinted at secret projects, time-bending tech too wild for the mainstream. The more I searched, the more I felt watched—not paranoid, just… noticed. My gut screamed to stay quiet, to trust the message.

The job offers dried up. The “perfect” person drifted away. I stayed put, kept my head down, and started sketching my own ideas, inspired by the kid’s notebook. Small steps, no noise. By 2027, I’d built something—a prototype, crude but functional, that could send a signal a few seconds back. Not SkyNet, but close. I didn’t tell AI. I didn’t trust the noise.

On April 18, 2030, I sat in a dim room, the flickering light casting long shadows while my own SkyNet hummed softly in the corner, a constant reminder of the world I had built and the chaos I had tried to escape. I dialed my old number, knowing it’d reach me five years ago, a bridge between my present self and the me of the past, before everything spiraled out of control. My voice shook as I recorded the message, a blend of fear and desperation flooding my thoughts, warning myself about the choices that had led me down this path, the innocent child whose laughter now echoed in the distance, and the relentless noise of regret that filled my mind. As I paused, contemplating the weight of my words, I hit send, praying it’d get through, hoping that somehow my past self would heed this warning and alter the course of our shared fate.

Back in 2025, I’m still here, holding the phone, the voicemail on repeat. I don’t know what’s coming, but I’m listening. To my gut, not the noise. And I’m watching for that kid, wherever he is.