SOUND of an ancient air conditioning unit whirring, a low mechanical sigh.
The office is a museum of affectionate decay. Piles of documents and old broadcast tapes threaten to swallow a massive metal desk. Low, golden autumn light filters through a dusty window, illuminating the chaos.
OWEN (50s), thinning grey hair, face etched with exhaustion, is hunched over the desk. He wears his frustration like a second skin.
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure habit. His weight settles into a groaning office chair, its vinyl armrests cracked, exposing yellowed foam.
JESSIE (23), earnest and wiry, stands by the window, his back mostly to the room. He stares out at the rust-coloured maple leaves clinging to their branches. His scuffed trainers shift on the floorboards, which give a faint, familiar SQUEAK.
His voice is steady, but a tremor builds in his chest.
A sharp, disbelieving SNORT from the corner.
KAREN (23), sleek dark bob, sharp and pragmatic, is perched on the edge of a filing cabinet. A legal pad is balanced on her knee.
Her pen taps a staccato rhythm against the pad. A nervous beat.
He pushes off the wall, peeling paint cool against his palm. He turns, his eyes flashing.
He scrapes a hand through his own close-cropped hair, a nervous tic. The air is thick with the scent of old paper, damp moss, and stale coffee.
Owen shoves a hand through a pile of papers. A few flyers for the annual pumpkin festival flutter to the floor.
He picks up a crumpled sheet of paper, smoothing it out. His eyes, usually sharp with dry humor, are shadowed with defeat.
The chair GROANS as he leans back.
Karen leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
A hot flush creeps up Jessie’s neck.
He looks at Karen. His best friend. It feels like a betrayal.
Two weeks. The words hang in the air. Jessie’s stomach clenches.
His voice sounds weak, desperate even to his own ears.
Her pen is already scribbling on the pad. She’s electric with the idea.
Jessie stares at her, a cold shock running through him.
He turns back to the window. A gust of wind tears a few leaves free, sending them spiraling down to the damp pavement. He can’t stay here. He walks out, leaving the argument hanging in the air.
Jessie pushes open a heavy steel door. The CREAK echoes.
The main studio is a cavernous, dark space. The massive lights suspended from the grid above are like sleeping giants. The air smells of old plastic, electronics, and faint stage makeup.
He walks past the main set—a hand-painted, slightly chipped backdrop of Port Blossom’s harbour. A behemoth of a studio camera from the early 2000s sits under a tarp. He runs a hand along the cool metal of its tripod, feeling the distant, low HUM of the station vibrate through it.
He moves into the adjoining control room.
A smaller, darker space filled with the ghosts of blinking lights on dead monitors. The main mixing board is a relic, its sliders sticky.
Jessie leans against the console, the storm brewing inside him. He remembers sitting here late at night, Owen patiently showing him how to cue music, how to bring a story to life. This place gave him everything.
A soft voice cuts through his thoughts.
He nearly jumps. MARY-ANNE (18), an intern with wide, enthusiastic eyes, stands in the doorway holding a stack of freshly labeled tape cassettes. She looks so young, so hopeful. It feels like a betrayal of that hope to even let her be here.
The simple words hit Jessie like a physical blow. A warmth spreads through his chest, fragile and unexpected. My nan. He remembers his own grandmother, her rapt attention as he stumbled through his first on-air report. It wasn’t just Mrs. Peterson. It was generations of them.
Mary-Anne offers a small, uncertain smile.
She clutches the tapes a little tighter, as if protecting them.
Just ours.
The phrase cuts through the noise in Jessie’s head. It’s the core of it all. A sudden burst of energy sparks within him.
He pushes himself off the console and walks past her, back towards the office, a new urgency in his step.
The low, golden light has softened, stretching long shadows across the dusty carpet. The streetlights outside have flickered on.
Owen is at his desk, scrubbing his temples. Karen is still on the filing cabinet, staring at her now-closed legal pad. The air is thick with weary silence, punctuated only by the HUM of the AC.
Jessie appears in the doorway, gripping the frame. The splintering wood is rough and familiar under his fingers.
Karen and Owen look up. His voice is clearer now, more resolute.
He offers a challenge, but also a plea. A desperate hope.
Karen meets his gaze, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t move.
Owen lets out a long, slow breath.
The silence stretches. The three of them, a fractured unit, suspended in the deepening autumn twilight. The station seems to hold its breath with them, waiting.
The signal is weak, but for a moment, they are all on the same frequency.
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