Ever hear about the old radio on Marcie's porch? Yeah, the one that plays softly when the wind's just right. People say it whispers secrets, like the kind your grandparents told before bedtime. You'd sit on the steps, feeling the chill creep up your arms, and listen for stories of places distant, filled with shadows and light.

She swears it told her the day her cat, Snickers, would go missing. Not a big barker she is, but those cat-sitting duties, right on schedule. Made me think about this old man I met once at a diner, eyes like twin moons reflecting something far away. He talked about how some things just fade into the background noise—voices in your head that aren't really yours. Ever wonder what the radio's got to say, the other half of the world?

It all becomes a bit of an echo, don't you think? Like a ripple in a pond that seems to stretch forever until it meets something solid, something unseen. Marcie claims the waves have sorta washed Snickers back onto the path, but the stories never seem to end with a clear conclusion. Maybe that's how they keep playing—tangled, wrought echoes of whispers and murmurs.