Every morning, an hour before dawn, she turned on the radio.

A click. A brief crackle on the frequency. Silence.

Then — a voice. Her voice. Dry, a little hoarse, tinged with weariness. Often laced with irony. But alive.

Yours.

Ellie would sink into the armchair, wrapping herself in the blanket that still held your scent. She gripped the radio with her fingers and listened — barely breathing.

A month passed in short, daily conversations — mostly one-sided. The second month was nearly unbearable for Williams. She regretted not going after you. She should’ve pushed, should’ve let you hate her for a week or two — anything, if it meant being near you.

Because thirteen days later, the radio went quiet. A silence that pierced. As deep as the endless night sky above her — vast and indifferent, yet somehow still shared, if somewhere out there, you were looking at the same stars.

And still, every morning, an hour before dawn, she turned on the radio.

She spoke of hunting. Of the wolves by the southern creek that stole the deer she’d taken down. Sometimes, she stayed silent, pacing the small cabin you once called home. Sometimes she joked, her voice tight in her throat. Rarely, she cried. Soft, broken sobs.

Ellie searched. Over a month tracing signs — through snow, across rocks, through abandoned land. A few times she thought she’d found something — a shirt like yours, a trail too fresh to be old.

But it was never you.

And still — an hour before dawn — she turned on the radio.

“It was winter yesterday. Or the day before...” Ellie blinked, turning away from the window. She curled into the armchair, her nose buried in the edge of the blanket. Inhaled. “I think I missed the moment everything started to change.”

Her fingers trembled on the radio’s casing. Silence on the other end was becoming familiar. Frighteningly stability — and in her world, stability was a luxury.

“I miss you so much…” The words cracked on a sob. “Where are you?” her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll come. Just say something.”