The Last Voice on the Radio

The day the power grids failed, the world didn’t end with fire or screams. It ended with silence.

At first, people filled that silence with noise—hammering on walls, revving dead cars, shouting into the void, desperate to be heard by anyone who might still be listening. But when the fuel ran out, and batteries drained to nothing, that noise faded too.

Except for one thing.

On the 104.7 FM band, there was still a voice.

“Good evening, survivors. This is Nora, transmitting from WZBL—formerly your local rock station, now your reminder that you’re not alone.”

That’s what she said every night at exactly 7:00 PM. Her voice was calm, even tender, like a lullaby echoing through a cracked speaker. She read weather reports from a world that no longer had seasons, shared stories from letters no one sent, and ended every broadcast with a song—sometimes jazz, sometimes static-filled lullabies.

People called her The Last Voice.

I was one of the few who still listened.

The first time I heard her was two months after the blackout. My camp was running on solar scraps and desperation. I turned an old radio dial just to feel something familiar, and there she was—laughing quietly between songs, like she could see me through the static.

For weeks, I tuned in religiously.

She told stories about her cat, Whiskey, who she said “still believes someone’s coming home.” She described sunsets no one could see anymore and read poems she claimed were “found between the pages of forgotten books.”

But there was something else—something off.

Every broadcast ended with the same haunting line:

“Someone out there is listening. Please keep the light on.”

One night, I did something stupid.

I replied.

I used a shortwave transmitter my father had built for emergencies. “Nora, this is Eli from Sector 19. I’m listening.”

The static hissed. No answer.

I almost turned it off when, faintly, her voice came through.

“Eli…”

It wasn’t part of her usual broadcast.

“You shouldn’t have answered.”

The line went dead.

After that, her broadcasts changed. The music grew darker, slower. The laughter stopped. She started talking about them—people who “follow the sound,” people who “walk toward the voice.”

She said if you hear footsteps while she’s on-air, you must turn off your radio immediately.

I didn’t believe her—until the night I forgot.

I fell asleep with the radio on. Sometime around 2 AM, I woke to the faint sound of… humming. Not from the radio—from outside. Someone was standing near my tent, repeating the last song she played. A low, broken tune.

When I stepped outside, there was no one there—just footprints in the dust leading toward the hills, where the transmission tower once stood.

The next night, Nora’s voice came again, weak and trembling.

“I’m sorry, Eli. They found the tower.”

Then silence.

For days, I kept listening. Nothing.

On the seventh day, I packed my bag and started walking toward the hills.

The tower was smaller than I imagined—half-collapsed, tangled in wires, its red beacon blinking faintly. I climbed the ladder and found a small broadcasting booth at the top. Inside, there was no one. Just a dusty microphone, a cracked mug labeled WZBL, and a tape deck still spinning.

The reels turned slowly, playing a final message.

“If you’re hearing this,” Nora said, “then you’re alive. Keep talking. Keep the light on. Someone out there is listening.”

I turned the transmitter on, adjusted the mic, and took a deep breath.

“Good evening, survivors,” I said softly. “This is Eli.

You’re not alone.”

Picture Summary:

Lonely radio tower glowing faintly at twilight, surrounded by silence and fog—symbolizing hope in isolation.