“The Last Broadcast”

A haunting story about connection, guilt, and the voice that wouldn’t stop calling back.

1. The Signal

At exactly 3:02 a.m., the emergency broadcast system turned itself on.

No one had used it in over thirty years — not since the solar storm that burned half the satellites and erased the global network.

The static roared through the speakers of a forgotten radio tower at the edge of the desert.

And then, beneath the noise, a voice spoke:

“This is Station 19. Is anyone alive out there?”

2. The Operator

Mara Wells had been alone for 216 days.

She was the last assigned operator at Relay Station 19, a rusted communications outpost left from before the Collapse. Her job had been simple — monitor the frequencies, log any signals, maintain the solar array.

Except no signals had come for months. No one had.

She’d stopped wearing her uniform weeks ago. Stopped talking out loud altogether — until that night.

The moment she heard the broadcast, her chest tightened. She ran to the console, heart pounding, fingers trembling on the dials.

“This is Station 19 responding. Identify yourself.”

A pause. Static like breathing.

“Mara?”

Her stomach turned cold. “Who is this?”

“It’s Theo.”

3. The Name She Buried

Theo Reyes. Her co-engineer. The man she’d buried beneath the sand dunes four months ago.

Or thought she had.

Mara’s throat went dry. “That’s not possible.”

“You left me,” the voice said, calm and distant. “You said you’d come back.”

Her eyes flicked to the corner of the room — to the weathered helmet still marked REYES-07, the cracked visor smeared with ash.

“No,” she whispered. “You’re dead.”

“Then why can you still hear me?”

4. The Incident

Back then, the station had been full. Six crew members, all military-trained communicators.

Their mission: re-establish long-range radio contact with the northern colonies after the grid blackout.

But the solar flares came early that year. The EMP fried their generators, the heat spiked, and the nearest supply route collapsed in a sandstorm.

They’d drawn lots for who would go out to fix the relay tower.

Theo volunteered.

The storm hit harder than predicted. Mara went after him three hours later and found his rover overturned, his suit torn open, his oxygen gone.

She buried him under the tower’s shadow and didn’t look back.

Until now.

5. The Voice That Wouldn’t Stop

Over the next few nights, the signal kept coming.

Always at 3:02 a.m.

Always the same voice.

“You said you’d wait for me.”

“The sky’s turning black, Mara.”

“Don’t you remember what we promised?”

At first, she tried to ignore it. Then she started recording.

Each transmission lasted precisely 7 minutes, 14 seconds — too long for random interference. Too human.

And beneath Theo’s voice, she began to hear something else.

A second whisper. Layered. Echoing the same words half a second later.

“You said… said… you’d wait… wait…”

It wasn’t an echo.

It was a delay.

Like two signals overlapping from different times.

6. The Tape

She spent the next week decoding.

Each frequency burst revealed coordinates — faint but consistent — all leading to one location: the collapsed relay tower where Theo had died.

On the eighth day, she loaded a rover with what little fuel remained. The desert stretched out like a sea of powdered bone.

When she reached the wreck, she saw the sand had shifted.

The grave was open.

Her breath fogged inside her mask.

No body. No bones.

Only his radio headset, half-buried in the dirt — its battery light still pulsing green.

She lifted it to her ear.

Static.

Then —

“You found me.”

7. The Conversation

She screamed and dropped the headset, but the voice didn’t stop.

It filled the air, the static humming through her comm-link.

“You came back,” Theo said. “It’s cold here.”

“Where are you?” she asked, heart racing.

“Right where you left me.”

She stared at the empty crater.

“You’re not real.”

“Does it matter?”

The desert wind howled like a thousand whispering wires.

“I’ve been calling you for months,” he said. “Through the static, through the loop. The signal bounces through the upper band — same time every night. You just never listened before.”

Her voice shook. “You’re not Theo. You’re the recording.”

“Then why do you keep answering?”

8. The Choice

She could’ve gone back to the station. Sealed herself in and waited out the last few weeks of air and rations.

Instead, she sat beside the tower, headset on, listening as the voice spoke — about the old days, about music, about how the world used to glow with city lights.

He made her laugh again. That was the worst part.

Each night, the transmission came stronger.

Each night, the voice sounded closer.

Then, on the thirteenth night:

“The loop’s closing, Mara. This is the last one.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the sun hits the horizon tomorrow, the storm will return. The frequency window will close. I can’t reach you after that.”

“Theo—”

“There’s still time. You can come through.”

Her blood ran cold. “Come through where?”

“The relay tower. The signal band — it’s wide enough now. You’ll see the light. Step into it.”

She shook her head. “That’s not possible.”

“Neither am I,” he said softly. “And yet, here I am.”

9. The Light

At sunrise, the horizon split open.

A surge of static roared through her comms — higher than before, almost musical. The broken relay tower began to glow, light seeping from its core like veins of molten glass.

Mara stepped closer. The air rippled.

Inside the light, she saw something impossible:

a figure standing beneath the tower, reaching toward her — Theo, young again, alive, smiling the way he used to.

“It’s me,” he said. “Just one step.”

The ground trembled. Her headset crackled.

Behind her, the rover’s dashboard blared warnings — radiation surge, structural instability, storm front inbound.

She had thirty seconds to decide.

Her trembling hand reached toward the glow.

“You said you’d come back,” the voice whispered.

“I know,” she said, eyes burning. “I always do.”

And she stepped into the light.

10. The Final Transmission

When the rescue team found Station 19 two months later, the place was silent.

The solar panels were still running.

The logs showed one last outgoing broadcast at 3:02 a.m.

They played it back.

Static at first, then a woman’s voice — calm, steady, faintly echoing.

“This is Station 19. If anyone’s still listening… the signal is open. The world’s not gone, just waiting. Keep calling.”

Then, under the noise, another voice — lower, familiar, answering from somewhere deep in the static:

“Always.”