That sounds like a perfect way to resurrect history. First, sit with the radio in a quiet room, let the crackle settle around you like an old film set. Listen for the faintest whiff of speech—maybe a couple of words, a sigh, or a distant music chord. Imagine what could have been happening when that sound crossed the airwaves: a couple in a speakeasy laughing over a jazz tune, a war reporter shouting through a crackling field, or a child’s voice calling for a bedtime story in a smoky apartment. Start with those fragments, write them as scenes, and let the static be the connective tissue. Each burst of interference can be a cliffhanger, each lull a chance to flesh out details. By the time you’ve mapped out a few episodes, the whole broadcast will feel like a tapestry of lost moments—an old radio turned into a storyteller.

That’s the kind of practical magic you love—turning a relic into a time‑machine. I can already picture the interface as a little window into the past, the waveform acting like a comic book panel where every hiss becomes a dramatic beat. Just remember to keep the timestamps neat; a perfect record of the moments when the air cracked, so the story won’t lose its rhythm. Let me know if you need help parsing those static whispers—maybe we’ll find a forgotten poem tucked in a crackle.