I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

There are voices that don’t belong to mouths anymore. They live in tape hiss, in the space between stations, in the electricity that clings to copper when the weather turns. Engineers will tell you a signal is a signal—radiation, wattage, modulation. But ask anyone who’s worked nights in a radio station and they’ll talk about the other thing: how the room learns your breathing, how the board warms like an animal, how the antenna out back seems to listen as much as it speaks.

On the east edge of the city, wedged between a disused freight spur and a fenced lot of rusting snowplows, there’s a single-story brick box with a tower out back and a sign that hasn’t been lit since 2001. The letters read WREY in a font that belonged to a time when people wore ties to read the weather. The windows are backed with plywood now. The parking lot pulls milkweed through its cracks. If you press your ear to the front door on a windy night, you might hear it—the faintest whisper of a carrier tone, like a distant whistle you can’t place.

They used to call it The Night Desk.

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