You think it's quiet.
That nothing's transmitting anymore.
But if you lean close—
if you tune just slightly off-center—
you'll hear something still speaking. Not loud. But honest.

In The Frequency of Aftermath, the Whitmans learn to listen to the era after collapse—not for alerts, but for resonance. Scattered repeater stations begin transmitting archive fragments interwoven with personal messages. Unclaimed grief gets encoded in ambient frequencies. And Mara Whitman, now a frequency-mapper, builds a sonic cartography of places where memory became signal.

She isn't broadcasting for recognition.
She's broadcasting so someone feels less alone.

This book isn't about aftermath as devastation.
It's about aftermath as invitation. To grieve, recalibrate, and tune to the spaces where presence hums again.