The winter wind carved through the empty National Mall, whistling past abandoned camera stands and fluttering the loose ends of security tape. Concrete barriers stood like sentries guarding nothing. The inauguration's eleventh-hour relocation indoors had transformed this historic space into a ghost town of half-assembled risers and forgotten flags.
Reverend Martin King's dress shoes crunched against salt-crusted pavement as he approached the presidential podium. His hands trembled – from the cold, he told himself – as he mounted his phone on a small tripod. The device's screen reflected his face: clean-shaven, sixty-three years old, with patches of gray at his temples that his daughter teased made him look distinguished. Twenty years of sermons in rural Georgia hadn't prepared him for this moment.
The TikTok app loaded. He pressed 'Go Live.'
One viewer joined. Then five. Twenty. His throat tightened.
"My fellow Americans," he began, then shook his head, laughing softly. "No, that's not right. My fellow seekers of truth. My fellow dreamers. My fellow believers in the promise of tomorrow." He adjusted his tie against the bitter wind. "I stand before you today at a podium meant for another purpose, in a space meant to hold thousands, now empty save for the whispers of history and the echo of hopes yet unfulfilled."
The viewer count climbed: 100, 500, 1,000. Comments began scrolling: "Who is this?" "Where is this?" "Wait, is that THE podium?"
"Some will say I shouldn't be here. Some will say this podium, this moment, belongs to others. And they're right – I'm just a preacher from Georgia, standing in a place where giants have stood." His voice found its rhythm, the cadence of Sunday mornings. "But I ask you: What is a podium but wood and metal? What is a Mall but concrete and grass? It's not the place that makes the moment sacred – it's the truth spoken there."
The count hit 10,000. King's phone buzzed with notifications, but his voice grew stronger.
"I'm reminded of what my grandmother used to tell me on dark nights when thunder shook our little house in Georgia. 'Child,' she'd say, 'sometimes God speaks in whispers, and sometimes He speaks in storms.' Today, I see a storm gathering in our beloved nation."
Comments flooded the screen: "SPEAK!" "Tell it!" "We're listening!"
"Look how far we've wandered from our path! Look how far we've strayed from our promise!" His voice rose and fell like waves against a shore. "We have become a nation of contradictions, a house divided against itself. But I tell you today – I tell you here and now – that even in our contradictions, there lies hope. Even in our failures, there lies possibility. Even in our darkness, there lies light."
The viewer count surged past 50,000. King wiped his brow despite the cold.
"They say we can't agree on anything anymore. They say we're too far gone. But I say: Look at Gaza! Look at how we brought peace where there was war and genocide! Look at how we built bridges where there were walls! Yes, we can still do great things. Yes, we can still be a light unto nations. Yes, we can still rise above our lesser selves and touch the face of our higher angels."
His phone warned of low battery, but the count passed 100,000.
"Now, some will point to our failings. They'll point to presidents who trade principles for profit. They'll point to leaders who turn public service into personal gain. They'll point to thirty billion dollars stolen through a digital deception shocking in its cravenness." He paused, letting the weight of each word land. "And they're right to point. They're right to be angry. They're right to demand better."
King stepped back from the podium, his voice rising with the wind that whipped across the Mall. "And so I say to you today, my friends watching through screens across this great nation – I have a dream that still lives on these grounds!"
The viewer count surged past two million.
"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed – not just in borrowed words, but in living truth. A dream that artificial intelligence will serve humanity, not replace it. A dream that social media will unite us, not divide us. A dream that cryptocurrency will lift up the poor, not enrich the powerful!"
His phone screen blazed with rushing comments, but King's eyes were fixed on the distant horizon.
"I have a dream that one day, right here in Washington, the sons of tech billionaires and the daughters of Walmart workers will sit together at the table of brotherhood – their devices set aside, their humanity restored!"
The winter sun broke through the clouds, throwing golden light across the empty stands.
"I have a dream that one day even the state of Georgia, my home state, a state sweltering with the heat of digital disinformation, sweltering with the heat of political corruption, will be transformed into an oasis of truth and political righteousness!"
His voice thundered across the vacant Mall, reaching through millions of phones and screens and devices:
"Let freedom ring from the Silicon Valley startups!
Let freedom ring from the crypto exchanges of Manhattan!
Let freedom ring from the social media platforms of America!
Let freedom ring from every server farm and data center!
Let freedom ring from every smartphone in every pocket!"
The viewer count topped five million as King pulled out his father's photo and his granddaughter's drawing one last time.
"When we let freedom ring through our keyboards and screens, when we let it ring from every phone and tablet and laptop, when we let truth prevail in every virtual space and digital domain, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children – online and offline, tech-savvy and tech-wary, digital natives and digital immigrants – will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old spiritual:"
His voice softened, but carried to every corner of the digital world:
"Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, our democracy is still free at last!"