My dad was in radio; he was a broadcaster, and it was in the

Host: The studio was silent except for the low hum of the old soundboard. Dust floated in the air like tiny ghosts of voices past, caught in the weak beam of a flickering fluorescent light. Through the glass, the city whispered its endless rhythm — car horns, laughter, rain against concrete.

A single microphone stood in the center of the room, its metal surface worn, its cord tangled, as if it had lived a thousand stories.

Jack sat behind the console, fingers tracing the knobs, the sliders, the switches. Jeeny leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes following him like a camera catching an unguarded moment.

Jeeny: “It feels… sacred in here.”

Jack: “That’s because this place remembers more than people do.”

Host: He spoke softly, his voice low, with that radio warmth that always seemed to carry more than words — a kind of loneliness shaped into sound.

Jeeny: “Greg Fitzsimmons said his dad was in radio. A broadcaster. Hosted game shows, the Jerry Lewis telethon, Good Day New York… fifteen years. Imagine what it’s like to grow up inside someone else’s voice.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You make it sound poetic. But I know what that feels like. My father used to read the news. Every night at seven, his voice came through the speakers — strong, confident, untouchable. Then he’d come home… and barely speak at all.”

Host: The light flickered again, revealing dust motes suspended like memories, each one trembling in the air.

Jeeny: “That’s what fascinates me about radio people. They talk to millions, but can’t talk to the ones they love.”

Jack: “It’s not hypocrisy, Jeeny. It’s protection. Behind that mic, you can be anyone. Out there, you’re just… you.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you think it’s tragic? To be heard by everyone and known by no one?”

Jack: “It’s survival. You fill the silence with words so the silence doesn’t fill you.”

Host: The soundboard lights blinked, tiny green and red dots glowing like the city skyline — little pulses of life, still beating even after the show ends.

Jeeny: “Your father ever let you behind the mic?”

Jack: “Once. I was twelve. He let me read a weather report. My hands shook the whole time. But afterward, he just looked at me and said, ‘You’ve got a good voice, but don’t forget — the voice isn’t the man.’ I didn’t understand it then.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I do. The voice is armor. The man — he’s the echo trapped inside it.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, her eyes soft, her reflection faint in the glass of the sound booth.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s why Fitzsimmons talked about his dad with such reverence. Not because of fame, but because of continuity — like the sound passed through the bloodline. Like the frequency never died.”

Jack: “A legacy of decibels.”

Jeeny: “No — of connection. Think about it. Every night, his father’s voice filled living rooms across New York. It wasn’t just broadcast — it was belonging. People trusted that voice. They built their evenings around it.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it was. For some people, voices like that were the only prayer they heard.”

Host: The rain intensified outside, the windows vibrating slightly with the rhythm. Jack’s face tilted upward, catching the faint reflection of the studio’s ON AIR sign.

Jack: “Funny. My dad used to say radio was about illusion — about making someone believe you’re sitting right beside them when you’re really miles away. It’s the closest thing to intimacy that doesn’t require presence.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that illusion comforts people. Isn’t that the point of art — to make absence feel like company?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just noise we use to drown out the emptiness.”

Jeeny: “But what’s wrong with that? Sometimes noise is the cure. I mean, think of all those nights — lonely people tuning in, not for information, but for a familiar tone. That’s what Fitzsimmons’ father gave them — a reason to feel less alone.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not out of pity, but recognition. The kind of tremor that comes when someone realizes they, too, have listened for comfort in the dark.

Jack: “You really think a voice can do that? Heal loneliness?”

Jeeny: “It already did. Yours just did.”

Host: He paused, the air thick with the sound of breathing — real, unfiltered, human. He reached for the microphone, turned the dial, and the red light glowed.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought my father was immortal. His voice was everywhere — on TV, in the car, in strangers’ houses. Even after he died, I kept hearing it in my dreams. The same cadence. The same authority. Maybe that’s the curse of the broadcaster — you leave your echo behind long after your body’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s the gift. You vanish, but the world keeps hearing you.”

Jack: “But does the world ever listen?”

Jeeny: “It listens enough to remember.”

Host: The silence stretched, heavy and warm. The rain softened, like applause fading at the end of a song.

Jack: “Sometimes I think about picking up where he left off. Hosting, talking, pretending to know something about life. But I’m afraid.”

Jeeny: “Afraid of what?”

Jack: “Of not having anything worth saying.”

Jeeny: “You just did.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, and for the first time, the lines on his face eased. He leaned forward, his fingers tightening around the microphone as if it were a hand from the past.

Jack: “Then maybe I’ll start the show with that — silence first, then honesty.”

Jeeny: “That’s how every great broadcast begins.”

Host: The studio light dimmed, leaving only the red glow of the ON AIR sign — the universal heartbeat of radio. Jeeny watched, her eyes glistening, as Jack spoke into the dark, his voice calm, measured, and full of something he hadn’t felt in years — peace.

Jack: “Good evening, wherever you are. If you’re listening… you’re not alone.”

Host: The camera pulls back, revealing the tiny studio, glowing like a beacon against the city’s endless neon sprawl.

The microphone hums. The rain falls. And somewhere, across unseen miles, a stranger hears that voice — and smiles.

Because sometimes, the truest inheritance isn’t money or fame — it’s a voice that lingers, reminding the world that even through static and distance, connection endures.