The Last Broadcast

The Last Broadcast

The night shift was the loneliest shift in the city. By the time the clock struck midnight, the streets outside were empty, save for the hum of streetlamps and the distant moan of the wind. Inside Station WPRX, only one light burned: the studio booth of Midnight Letters, a radio show hosted by a man who called himself Solomon Grey.

Listeners never knew his real name. His voice was his only identity—low, velvety, the kind of voice that felt like a secret whispered just for you. He read letters from insomniacs, drifters, truckers on endless highways, and lonely souls who poured their hearts into envelopes and mailed them to the station.

But one night, the letters began to change.

It started innocently enough. A letter arrived in a plain white envelope, no return address. The handwriting was neat, mechanical, almost too precise.

"Dear Solomon,

I am writing not from another town, but another time. The year is 2071. I am twenty years old. We were taught in school that you once existed, that your broadcasts became legendary, even though most people thought you were a myth. I don’t expect you to believe me, but tonight at 2:17 AM, a transformer will explode three blocks east of your studio. It won’t hurt anyone, but it will plunge the neighborhood into darkness for exactly thirteen minutes. That is how you’ll know I’m real."

Solomon chuckled when he read it on air. He’d seen plenty of pranksters try to spice up the show, and “letters from the future” were nothing new. Still, he read it anyway. His audience liked the strange and the absurd.

At 2:17 AM, just as the letter predicted, the power flickered. The building groaned. Then the lights went out.

The studio fell into black silence.

Thirteen minutes later, the power returned. Everything was exactly as described.

For the first time in years, Solomon’s smooth voice faltered. “Well, folks,” he said into the mic, “I think someone just made a very lucky guess.”

But his hands shook as he lit a cigarette.

The following night, there was another letter. Same handwriting.

"Dear Solomon,

Tonight, a red car will run the lights at the intersection of 8th and Willow at 1:03 AM. No one will die, but three will be injured. Please tell your listeners to avoid the crossing."

Solomon considered throwing it out. He didn’t like being made the fool. But something gnawed at him. He read it aloud.

At 1:03 AM, emergency sirens wailed outside. A red car lay crumpled at the intersection of 8th and Willow, just as the letter said.

The letters kept coming. Each night, another prediction. Some trivial—a thunderstorm arriving twenty-seven minutes early, a coin flip on live TV landing heads five times in a row. Some darker.

One letter warned of a fire at a factory. Solomon tried to sound calm as he read it on air. “Just another curious prophecy from our mysterious friend,” he said, laughing nervously. But when the fire broke out hours later, killing two night workers, his laugh died in his throat.

His listeners began writing back, frantic. “Who is this future-writer?” “Can they tell me how my story ends?” “Ask them about my missing brother.”

Solomon didn’t respond. He had stopped sleeping. He lived in the booth, staring at the mailbox like it might bite him.

The final letter arrived on a stormy night. The envelope was wet, the ink bleeding, but the words were still legible.

"Dear Solomon,

You have read me faithfully. Thank you. But you must understand something: we do not send letters to change the past. We send them because we are required to. This is the last broadcast you will ever make.

At 3:46 AM, the storm outside will strike the radio tower. The building will collapse. You will not survive."

Solomon stared at the clock. It was 3:12 AM. Rain battered the windows. Lightning flashed, close, too close.

He read the letter aloud, his voice steadier than he felt. Listeners across the city leaned closer to their radios. The storm outside howled.

“This could be the last time we speak,” Solomon said softly, his voice filling the silence like a hymn. “If it is, thank you for keeping me company in the long dark hours. Maybe that’s all any of us ever want—to be remembered.”

The studio lights flickered.

At 3:46 AM, a thunderous crack split the night. The tower groaned like a dying giant. And then the broadcast cut to static.

In the years that followed, rumors spread. Some swore they heard his final words echo through their radios long after the station was gone. Others claimed new letters kept arriving in mailboxes—letters predicting small, strange events that always came true.

But no one ever found the body of Solomon Grey.

And late at night, when the static grows heavy, some listeners say they can still hear his velvet voice, whispering through the noise:

"This is Midnight Letters. Thank you for tuning in."