Mira woke to the sound of rain.
Thin, steady drops tracing along the window glass, soft enough to sound like whispers. The room was dim, washed in gray light. Her head ached. For a second she didn't remember why her heart was racing, why her mouth was dry.
Then she saw the radio.
It sat on the counter exactly where she'd left it. Unplugged.
Still, the memory of that voice lingered—like smoke that hadn't cleared.
"…Mira…"
She rubbed her temples. "Dream," she muttered. "Just a dream."
The kind that feels too real because you want it to be.
She moved through her morning routine in silence. Toothbrush. Cold coffee. The faint rattle of the ceiling fan above her head. Yet everything sounded *off*, like there was a layer of noise behind each sound—the faintest hiss, just beyond hearing range. When she paused to listen, it vanished. When she moved, it returned.
By noon, she gave up pretending it was normal.
She unplugged her phone charger, set it beside the radio, and went to leave for work. But as she grabbed her bag, a soft click sounded behind her.
She turned.
The radio light was on.
Just a weak red glow. No sound. No movement. But it shouldn't have been on at all—there was no power cord. Her pulse jumped. She stepped closer.
The light blinked twice.
Then static spilled into the room like a sigh.
"Elias?" she whispered before she could stop herself.
The static steadied, and a faint shape flickered across the radio's tuning glass—just a shadow, or maybe the reflection of her hand. Then a low hum came through, deep and broken.
"…you heard me."
Her stomach dropped. "That's not possible. You're—"
"—here," the voice said, clearer now. "Been here since last night."
Mira's breath fogged in the air. She reached out and touched the radio's side, half-expecting heat. It was cold.
"What do you want?" she asked quietly.
"…to listen," Elias said. The tone wasn't threatening. It was sad—like someone who hadn't spoken in years.
Mira swallowed. "Listen to what?"
"…to you."
The words hit different. She looked down, unable to explain the sudden rush of emotion. "You don't even know me."
"I do now."
The radio light brightened for a second, then dimmed. The static dropped into silence again. Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the window.
Mira turned it off—really off, unplugged and wrapped the cord around it this time. But when she looked up, the light of her phone flickered. Her reflection in the black screen glitched—her face, then for a split frame, *someone else's.*
She dropped it. The light steadied.
"Get a grip," she whispered.
At work that night, she couldn't shake the sense of being followed. Every reflective surface—a window, a turned-off monitor—seemed to shimmer when she passed. The office was supposed to be empty, but she heard faint tapping in the stairwell, and a soft hum in the vents, just under the sound of the rain.
She returned home near dawn, soaked, tired, eyes stinging from lack of sleep.
The radio waited on the counter like it had been expecting her.
When she walked past it, it *breathed.* A low static sigh. The red light blinked once, almost like a heartbeat.
Mira stopped.
She stood there for a long time, staring at it.
Finally, she whispered, "If you're real… prove it."
The light flared.
Then everything in the room—her phone, the old ceiling bulb, even the faint streetlight glow through her window—flickered in sync with it. The sound rose and fell like a pulse. The static thickened into a voice again, breaking through the noise.
"…Look… behind you."
Mira froze.
The apartment behind her was dark. She turned slowly, heartbeat pounding.
Nothing there.
She exhaled shakily, turned back—and found the radio's dial shifted on its own, landing perfectly on a station number.
6.13 FM.
She stared at it. That frequency wasn't even supposed to exist.
"Elias," she whispered, "what are you?"
A pause, soft and heavy. Then, almost tender:
"…someone who remembers you."
Before she could answer, the lights went out.
Only the radio stayed alive—glowing faint amber, the color of a dying sun.
And under the crackle of static, somewhere deep in the noise, she swore she heard *her own voice,* repeating a line she hadn't said yet.
"Don't forget me."