© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

“This is Frequency Nine. And if you’re hearing this, you’re still alive. That’s enough reason to hope.”

Your breath caught as his voice poured through the rusted radio, smooth as honey, strong as steel. It always hit you like a first kiss.

You sat across from him in the tiny sound booth, watching as he leaned into the mic like it was a prayer. He spoke to ghosts, to rebels in hiding, to broken souls who only needed a voice to keep breathing. And he gave it to them—night after night.

When he finally cut the feed, silence swelled between you. He pulled off his headset, leaning back in the creaky chair with a sigh that didn’t match the sunshine in his voice.

“Good?” he asked, glancing at you.

“Perfect,” you replied. “You made them believe again.”

He smiled faintly, but you saw it—the storm behind his eyes. The one he never let bleed into the broadcast.

You stood, crossing the room to sit on the desk’s edge beside him.

“Wanna tell me what’s really on your mind, sunshine boy?”

He chuckled softly. “I thought I was good at hiding it.”

“You’re good at hiding it from the world. Not from me.”

He glanced up, and for a moment, all the charisma melted into raw truth.

“I don’t know if it’s enough,” he murmured. “My voice. The words. I speak hope into static, and sometimes it feels like screaming into space.”

You leaned in, brushing your fingers through his hair gently. “You’re not screaming. You’re singing them to life.”

He let out a shaky breath. “I used to think my voice was the one thing they couldn’t take. But some days… it feels like even that’s slipping.”

You hesitated, then reached into your pocket and pulled out the little recorder—the one you secretly used to capture his broadcasts. You pressed play.

“If you’re hearing this, you’re still alive.”

His voice echoed again, softer now. You watched his expression shift as he listened to himself—really listened. And for the first time, you saw it land in his chest.

“You save lives every night, DK,” you said quietly. “But you don’t have to save yourself alone.”

He looked at you, stunned. Like the words had struck a chord he didn’t know was out of tune.

Then—almost timidly—he reached for your hand. His grip was warm, trembling slightly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “That I’ll lose my voice. That I’ll lose you.”

You leaned in until your forehead touched his. “Then let’s make sure neither of us goes quiet.”

A beat.

Then he whispered:

“You’re the only one who makes the silence feel safe.”