The Last Broadcast

In a frozen relay station, Kara keeps watch by a dying radio and a wall of rules. She tracks her pulse, rations heat, and touches a photo of her son Luke. Outside, a whiteout hunts for warmth, pressing frost signatures against the glass. The placard warns: They keep what they take. They follow warmth. Kara studies the tower plan: send the full tone cycle, tower tone 66.6 for 10. She kills lamps, moves by memory, and rigs a wire tone that makes the lattice brittle when hot. Breaths echo in the vents, off by one beat, as something mimics her boy in the static. A hairline crack spiders the frame; Kara dogs the inner shutter and counts down the cycle. The breach comes anyway; the heater dies; the waltz on her recorder twists into a hymn. With the plan failing, she triggers the purge, opens fuel, and lights the tower. A column of fire roars into the storm and a single flare punches the night. Through the static, Luke calls for her at last, and Kara chooses silence as the blaze consumes the signal.