Work Text:
It was a warm summer afternoon when I went on an outing with my grandfather’s brother. The weather was hot, and sweat stuck to my skin, uncomfortable but not enough to bother me much. I held onto Grandpa’s hands as his fragile body led us to the ice cream parlor. It was our little secret. Fighting Type 1 diabetes, he wasn’t allowed to eat ice cream—but I was a quiet kid he could trust. Perhaps the only one.
I was around seven when he passed away—too young to mourn his death properly. I still remember the day he died; I went out with my friends to buy chocolate and satisfy my sweet tooth.
He had a room downstairs on the creepy ground floor under the stairs. The room was dark except for a dim yellow light that made it feel even more chilling. The left side was completely occupied by big sandooqs and pillows for guests on special occasions. The walls held built-in cupboards, rusty and covered in spider webs. On the right side of the room was his bed: small and squeaky. In the middle lay a gas cylinder and a pan he’d use to make tea. And in the far, hidden corner of the room, as if shy and hiding from prying eyes, sat a radio.
I moved closer with slow, deliberate steps and picked it up. It was dusty and cold to the touch. A weird, chilling energy hung in the air. I left the room with the radio after one last glance around.
Upstairs, I drank tea with the biscuits—my favorite wafers—that Grandma bought me, and I forgot all about the radio I’d put in my bag earlier.
After a week’s stay, we came back home, and everything returned to normal. Winter was approaching, and the sun grew dimmer. I came home from school on half-day leave due to nasty diarrhea. It was a slow, lazy day when I suddenly remembered the radio.
I got up on wobbly legs and rummaged through my bag for it. The radio was still the same: cold and dusty. I picked up a discarded piece of fabric from the floor and wiped it clean. Now somewhat presentable, the radio intrigued me. I pressed the button, but it only made a click sound. I tried a few more times, but nothing came out except those empty clicks. Frustrated, I sighed and put it down.
Bored and sick, I decided to take a nap. The heater was off, and the room was dim. Chilled air seeped through my blanket. I closed my eyes and eventually fell asleep.
An hour later, I moved in my sleep and touched something warm. I frowned, half-awake, feeling around with my hand until the warmth startled me fully awake. I sat up in bed.
The radio was there.
I could’ve sworn I left it in the other room. But what was even creepier was the warmth—not the kind a machine should have. It held the warmth of a living being.
I was still processing that when it started rattling.
Freaked out, I backed against the wall. The tile was cold against my back, raising goosebumps on my skin. Then a voice came out of the radio—one so familiar I went pale, choking on my own saliva. It was speaking to me, yet I couldn’t understand it. I sat frozen as everything around me began to vanish, like sand slipping through an hourglass.
My mother tenderly woke me up for medicine. Startled, I looked around for the radio—but it was gone. She asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t respond. I scrambled out of bed and searched the other room. Nothing. I ran back in a panic and asked her about the radio, my words tumbling out in a haste.
She didn’t remember it. She put a hand on my forehead and told me it must’ve been a dream.
But I knew it wasn’t.
Why wouldn’t she believe me? Ami tried to calm me down, fed me soup and medicine, and put me back to sleep by patting my back.
I woke up less groggy and more oriented. I tried to write it off as a bad dream and move on.
But to this day, I don’t know: was it real? Whose voice was it? What was it trying to tell me?
And what happened to the radio?
---