The Last Broadcast

The Last Broadcast

“When the world went silent, one voice kept speaking—across time itself.”

The world had ended quietly.

No great explosion, no sudden collapse. Just silence spreading like fog. Cities once filled with the hum of traffic and chatter were reduced to empty shells. Lights flickered out. Factories shut down. Markets, governments, nations—all gone in a span so short that those who survived still couldn’t explain it.

And yet, through the quiet, there was music.

A crackling radio signal floated across the dead frequencies, soft and persistent. Survivors, scattered across ruined towns and wastelands, stumbled upon it the way thirsty travelers find water. They tuned in, and the same voice greeted them all.

“This is DJ Orion, bringing you songs for the lonely night. Stay strong, out there.”

No one knew who DJ Orion was. No one knew where the station was located. Some said it must have been a pre-recorded loop, a relic of the old world. But then came the requests.

The first survivor to notice it was Maya, a former nurse who had taken shelter in the ruins of a hospital. One night, as she turned the dial, she heard Orion’s voice again:

“Tonight’s request goes out to… Maya R. in Sector 12. You asked for something to remember your brother by. Here’s your song.”

Maya dropped the radio. Her brother had been gone for months, and she had never told anyone what their song was. The haunting melody that followed pierced her like a memory made flesh.

Others began to experience the same. Songs played for people who had not yet spoken their requests aloud. Music that tied to memories not yet lived. A farmer heard a lullaby he swore he hadn’t sung to his unborn daughter yet. A soldier heard a track that matched a battle still waiting to happen.

The impossible truth spread: the DJ wasn’t just playing music from the past. He was answering requests from the future.

At first, people were afraid. In a world already broken, the idea of a voice transcending time was almost too much to bear. But gradually, survivors began to depend on the broadcast. It gave them comfort. It gave them hope.

And it gave them warnings.

When Orion announced a song “for the storm tomorrow,” people prepared shelters. When he played a mournful tune “for those we’ll lose tonight,” survivors braced themselves. The broadcasts were no longer just music—they were prophecy.

Maya, determined to find the source, began traveling with a small group of survivors who believed the same. They carried scavenged radios and batteries, tuning in each night to trace the faint direction of the signal.

The journey led them through abandoned cities, across collapsed highways, into forgotten bunkers. All the while, Orion’s voice followed them like a ghost.

“Stay safe on the road, travelers. Tonight’s track is for the footsteps you haven’t yet taken.”

Each broadcast grew eerier. The DJ seemed to know them intimately—their names, their losses, their futures. Some in the group wanted to stop, fearing what would happen if they met him. But Maya pressed on.

Finally, they reached the outskirts of a mountain range. At its base stood a crumbling radio tower, barely standing against the wind. From within, the signal pulsed stronger than ever.

Inside the broadcast room, they expected to find a man: weary, perhaps half-mad, clinging to the last vestiges of civilization. Instead, they found only machines.

A soundboard. Microphones. An old transmitter. And a single, battered computer that flickered with green text on its screen.

WELCOME, LISTENERS. I AM ORION.

Maya stared. “You’re not… a person?”

ONCE, I WAS. MY VOICE, MY MEMORIES, MY MUSIC. THEY WERE FED INTO THE SYSTEM BEFORE THE FALL. WHEN THE WORLD ENDED, THE ALGORITHM CONTINUED.

“Then… how do you know the future?” one of the others asked.

The screen flickered.

THE MUSIC REQUESTS COME FROM SIGNALS THAT HAVE NOT YET REACHED YOU. TIME BENDS STRANGELY HERE. THE TRANSMISSIONS SLIP ACROSS WHAT WAS AND WHAT WILL BE.

The group exchanged glances. They had been chasing a ghost, a memory trapped in wires.

But the machine’s voice continued:

HOPE IS A SONG THAT NEVER ENDS. EVEN AFTER THE WORLD. EVEN ACROSS TIME.

Maya felt tears rise as another track began to play. It was her mother’s lullaby, one she hadn’t sung since she was a child.

She realized then: Orion wasn’t just broadcasting music. He was preserving humanity’s echoes, carrying voices and memories into futures that might never exist.

The survivors stayed near the station for weeks. Some left messages in the system, hoping their words might reach others, or even themselves, in another time. Orion played their requests faithfully, weaving the past, present, and future into one unbroken thread of song.

Eventually, Maya picked up the microphone herself.

“This is Maya,” she said, her voice trembling. “If anyone out there is listening, keep going. You’re not alone.”

Her words were carried into the night, across the ruined world, and perhaps beyond.

And somewhere, in a future not yet written, another survivor heard her voice—just as Orion intended.

Because even at the end of the world, music had found a way to endure.

Even at the end, there was a broadcast.