The Last Broadcast

The hum of the old television had become a lullaby to Elias, a white noise that filled the emptiness of his late-night apartment. He’d drift off to the glow of late-night cartoons, the absurdity of them a comforting barrier against the silence that seemed to press in from the walls. That night, sleep took him quickly, a heavy blanket pulling him under as the screen flickered with the antics of a talking dog and a cynical rabbit.

He didn’t dream, not exactly. It was more a state of floating, a suspension between waking and the depths of slumber. He was aware of the rough texture of his bedsheet against his cheek, the faint scent of dust in the air, and the low murmur of the television. Then, he felt it. A pressure, warm and broad, applying a slow, rhythmic pressure to his back. Not a poke or a prod, but a gentle, rocking motion. Shin-deep, soothing, it was a pattern he hadn’t felt in years. Not since he was a boy, crying in his grandmother’s lap, her hand moving in these same slow, circular strokes over his shoulder blades.

He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to. The fear that had been a constant companion for months, the sharp grief that had lodged in his chest like a splinter, seemed to dissolve under that touch. It was a feeling of being utterly known, utterly loved, utterly safe. He sank into it, each stroke pulling him deeper into a peace he’d forgotten existed.

Then, the touch was gone. The warmth receded, and the weight of the world returned. Elias’s eyes fluttered open. The pale, sickly light of early morning leaked through the blinds. His room was just as he left it: the pile of laundry in the corner, the half-empty water glass on the nightstand. But the television was not on the cartoon channel. The screen was a sea of serene blue, and a woman with a gentle face sat in a sunlit studio, speaking in soft, measured tones about the power of faith and the comfort of the Almighty.

Elias stared, his mind slow, trying to compute. He never watched this channel. He didn’t even know it existed. He reached for the remote, but it wasn’t on the nightstand. He scanned the floor, the bed, and then saw it on the dresser across the room, a good five feet from the bed. Impossible. He’d fallen asleep with the remote in his hand; he always did. His heart began a slow, heavy thud. He looked back at the TV. The woman was now reading a passage from a worn Bible, her voice earnest. The logo on the screen read ‘Shepherd’s Call.’ His grandmother had watched that channel every Sunday. It was her church’s broadcast.

Elias threw off the covers, his legs shaking. He walked to the television, his fingers hovering over the power button. The remote was on the dresser, exactly where he wouldn’t have put it. He turned it off, but the image lingered in his mind. The news that his grandmother’s church had stopped their television ministry years ago, before she died, clawed at the edges of his memory. He stood there, the silence of the apartment now heavy, pregnant with an unspoken presence.

A detail surfaced from the fog of his memory. The night before, he had been watching a particularly loud animated comedy. He had muted it during a commercial, and in that brief silence, he thought he heard a whisper from the other side of the room, a soft, familiar voice saying his name. He had dismissed it as his mind playing tricks. Now, the remote’s impossible relocation felt like an answer. A reply. A confirmation.

He walked to the kitchen, his bare feet cold on the linoleum. The coffee maker sat there, unplugged. A photograph of his grandmother, beaming, was magnetized to the fridge. He traced the outline of her face with his finger, a tremor running through him. She had always told him, ‘When I’m gone, I’ll still be watching over you.’ He’d smiled, condescendingly, as you do with the elderly. But now, that night’s intrusion, the gentleness of the touch, the sudden shift to a channel she loved, felt less like a memory and more like a visitation.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. He called his father, who laughed it off, attributing it to sleep-talking or a stray signal interference. He told his friend, Maya, who suggested it was a dream, a manifestation of his grief. He tried to believe them. But that night, as he got into bed, he left the TV off. The silence was louder than any broadcast. He lay in the dark, waiting, his back to the ceiling, tense. The hours stretched, and he was on the verge of sleep when he heard it again. Not a whisper, but a static-filled hum from the television, despite the power being off. He snapped his eyes open, but the room was dark, the TV screen a black void.

He reached for the lamp, fumbling for the switch, and as the light flooded the room, the TV was on. A picture of a vast, starry sky filled the screen, and a deep, resonant voice was speaking over it, a voice that was not the gentle woman from the morning. It was a voice that felt ancient, layered with echoes, and it was saying words he didn’t understand, but they resonated in his chest, a vibration of something old and immense. And on the back of his neck, he felt a breath, warm and familiar, and a hand, not pressing, but resting, a silent promise that she was still there, in the signal, in the silence, in the static between channels. Elias didn’t sleep that night. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the screen, the remote in his grip, but he didn’t change the channel. He just listened, and for the first time since she’d died, he didn’t feel alone. The hand on his back was the only comfort he needed.