short fiction · 2026-10-18

The Empty Frequency

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The old radio sat on the windowsill, its dial frozen at 98.3 FM, the station that played jazz every Sunday morning. Dust gathered in the crevices of the bakelite casing, and the speaker grille bore a faint imprint where a thumb had rested, turning the volume up just enough to fill the kitchen with saxophone. Now, only the hum of the refrigerator competed with the faint hiss of static, a breath held too long. I poured coffee into the chipped mug she always used, watching the steam curl and vanish before it could reach the ceiling.