The broadcast that kept your voice.

Original fiction. Not an account of a real event.

The radio had been unplugged for six months when it said my name.

Not the name on my mail. The small, embarrassing name my mother used when she wanted me to know I was safe.

I carried it to the kitchen. The cord dragged behind me, tapping each stair like a fingernail.

“Don’t look out,” it said.

Outside, someone knocked on the glass. Three patient taps. Then my own voice asked if I could open the door.

I turned the tuning dial. Every station was the same breath, taken at a slightly different moment. A hundred versions of me waiting to speak.

“What happens if I let it in?” I asked.

The radio went quiet. So did the knocking.

From upstairs, my voice called down: “You already did.”