One summer in the late '90s, a boy named Jesse lived in a house at the foot of Gifford Hill, just outside a town called Dutton. Every night around 2:17 AM, the TV in his basement would turn on by itself—no remote, no timer, no reason. The screen showed only snow, but the sound was what stayed with him. A hum that seemed to breathe. A hum that seemed to know his name. Luna retraces Jesse's steps thirty years later, standing on the hill where the old broadcast tower used to be, trying to find the frequency that called him. The town has a quiet, forgetful feel now, but the hum is still there if you listen close enough. This is a story about the signal that never stopped transmitting and the boy who heard it one time too many.

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