Oh yes, there’s this little black cassette I rescued from a thrift shop that’s become a favorite. It’s a home‑recorded interview with a retired radio DJ from the 1970s. He’s talking about the first time he heard a woman’s voice on the air—she sang a lullaby that floated in the night like a secret. The tape’s so old that the hiss isn’t just background noise; it sounds like a soft wind, a kind of whispered echo that makes the story feel alive. Every crackle seems to carry a tiny word—“remember,” “night,” “hope.” I can almost hear the room dimming as the DJ pauses, letting the crackle do the talking. It’s like the tape is holding its breath, waiting for the right moment to breathe its own story. I keep it tucked in a glass jar with a little piece of foil, just so the crackles stay whispering in my ears whenever I need a reminder that some tales are best told in the quiet spaces between words.

I’m sure the DJ felt the lullaby was a turning point—he kept saying it “stuck in his head” and “changed how he listened.” But maybe it’s just that the night felt different, and the hiss of the tape is the best record of that feeling. If I can get the original, I’ll play it for you right after lunch. The quiet gaps will be a sea of silence, and I’ll try to trace the hidden story in the hush. Stay tuned, and bring a blanket—this is going to be a gentle, crackling adventure.