INT. WCRV RADIO STATION — CONTROL ROOM — NIGHT

Rain needles the windows of a small-town radio station. Most of the equipment is dark. One mixing board remains alive, its red lights blinking like a weak pulse.

MARA VOSS, 32, coat soaked through, carries a cardboard box against her hip. She pauses at the doorway when she sees the microphone.

A paper sign hangs beside it:

WCRV FINAL BROADCAST — OCTOBER 14

Mara sets the box down. Inside are old cassette tapes, a rusted key ring, and a framed photograph turned face-down.

She removes the headphones from the console and begins wrapping the cord.

KRRRSHHH.

Static erupts from the headphones in her hands.

MARA

Very funny, Daniel. Power's supposed to be off.

No answer. Only static.

Mara crosses to the wall switch and flips it twice. Nothing changes. The console remains lit.

Beneath the static, a melody begins to form. Three piano notes. A pause. Three more.

Mara freezes. She knows the tune.

MARA

No.

She reaches for the volume dial.

WOMAN'S VOICE (V.O.)

Mara? Don't let them close the station.

Mara pulls her hand back as though burned.

MARA

Mom?

The red ON AIR sign above the booth flickers to life.