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Welcome to A Bedtime Story. I'm Matthew Mitchell, and tonight's story is titled The Needle and the Void, Part 1 of this week's series: The Frequency of Forgotten Things.

Juno was the kind of teenager who preferred the company of inanimate objects to actual people, mostly because objects rarely asked you about your plans for university or commented on the state of your hair. She worked at a shop called The Dusty Alcove, a place where time seemed to have given up and decided to take a nap. The store was filled with typewriters that only typed in vowels, chairs with too many legs, and mirrors that showed you how you looked three minutes ago. Her boss, Arthur, was an elderly man who wore three sweaters regardless of the temperature and spent most of his time trying to organize a collection of buttons by their level of sassiness.

"You see this one, Juno?" Arthur said, holding up a small pearlescent button with a chipped edge. "This one thinks it is far too good for a simple cardigan. It has the soul of a ballroom gown and the attitude of a duchess."

Juno smiled and continued dusting a shelf of porcelain cats that seemed to be watching her every move. She enjoyed the quiet chaos of the shop. One afternoon, while moving a particularly heavy crate of antique telescopes, she noticed a loose floorboard behind the counter. Underneath it sat a box made of a wood so dark it looked like a hole in the universe. There was no label, no shipping manifest, and certainly no instructions. Curiosity, which usually led Juno into trouble but at least kept her entertained, took over. She pried the lid off to find a record player. It was not a standard model. It was carved from obsidian, with a needle made of a clear, shimmering diamond. Beside it lay a single disc, also made of stone, perfectly smooth and cold to the touch.

Juno knew she should probably tell Arthur, but he was currently in the basement having a stern talk with a leaky pipe. She could hear him muffled through the floor. "Listen here, you dripping menace," Arthur shouted, "I have had quite enough of your rhythmic nonsense!"

Juno carefully placed the obsidian disc onto the turntable. There were no buttons to press, no wires to plug in. As soon as the needle touched the stone, the air in the shop grew heavy and still. The usual hum of the street outside faded into a vacuum of silence. Then, a sound began to bleed out of the machine. It was not music. It was the sound of a crowded room, the clinking of glasses, and the low murmur of a thousand voices. She leaned in closer, her heart performing a nervous tap dance against her ribs. Among the sea of noise, a single voice became clear. It was her own.

"I am telling you, the umbrella did not walk away on its own," her voice said from the record, sounding slightly more tired than she felt now. "And if I see that turtle again, I am calling the authorities."

This was strange because Juno did not own an umbrella, and she had a profound fear of turtles. The recording grew louder, and then she heard a man's voice, cold and sharp as a razor blade. "The bridge will fall at midnight," the man said. "The frequency must be maintained at all costs. Do not let the girl interfere."

The record player hissed, and a spark of blue light jumped from the needle. Juno pulled back, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was six in the evening. She had six hours before whatever she heard was supposed to happen. She felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of responsibility. She took the disc off the player and tucked it into her jacket just as Arthur emerged from the basement.

"You look like you have seen a ghost, or perhaps a very large spider," Arthur remarked, wiping his hands on his third sweater.

"Just a bit of dust, Arthur," Juno said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I think I am going to head out early if that is alright."

Arthur waved a hand dismissively, already distracted by a box of haunted thimbles. "Go on then. Try not to fall into any plot holes on your way home."

Juno stepped out into the cool evening air. The streetlights were flickering on, casting long, spindly shadows across the pavement. She felt the weight of the stone disc against her side. It felt like a ticking heart. She began to walk toward the bridge, her mind racing through a list of everyone she knew who might be able to explain why a piece of rock was telling her the future. She thought of Felix, a boy from her chemistry class who spent more time building illegal radios than studying periodic tables. If anyone understood strange frequencies, it was him.

As she turned the corner, she noticed a man in a long gray coat standing by a lamppost. He was perfectly still and utterly silent. He looked exactly like the kind of person who would have a voice like a razor blade. Juno quickened her pace, her boots clicking a frantic rhythm on the cobblestones. She did not look back, but she could feel his eyes on her, a cold pressure at the base of her skull. She realized then that the recording was not just a warning; it was a target. She had five hours and forty-five minutes to find Felix and save the bridge, and she had the distinct feeling that the man in the gray coat was not interested in a polite conversation about her day.