Good Morning Eelridge
The red ON AIR sign glowed softly above the studio door.
Maeve Marsh leaned back in her chair, one boot resting on the edge of the console while an instrumental track faded beneath her voice. The studio smelled faintly of old coffee, warm electronics, and the rain that had drifted through an open window earlier that morning.
She smiled into the microphone.
“Good morning, Eelridge. You’re listening to Moss Frequency, one-oh-two-point-three AM. It’s Tuesday, September twelfth. Looks like we’ve got a high of seventy-four today with scattered clouds and a decent chance of fog settling in over Blackwater after sunset.”
She glanced at the handwritten notes scattered across the desk.
“Starting things off, the volunteer fire department is hosting its quarterly blood drive this Saturday from nine until three at the community center. Walk-ins are welcome, but appointments help keep things moving.”
A click of a button.
“Second, the Eelridge Animal Shelter has four puppies and two older dogs looking for homes this week. Apparently one of the puppies has already escaped twice, so if you like a challenge...”
She laughed quietly to herself.
“...he’s your guy.”
Another page.
“The Johnson family is holding a garage sale on Oak Street beginning Friday morning. Furniture, fishing gear, holiday decorations, and—according to the flyer—‘an unreasonable amount of Tupperware.’”
She paused.
“I don’t know what constitutes an unreasonable amount of Tupperware, but if you’ve been searching for lids your whole life, this might be your moment.”
She smiled.
That one had been for herself.
Silence on the radio was strange. Dead air made people nervous. So she always tried to leave listeners with something warm before letting the music take over.
“That’s your morning bulletin, Eelridge. Keep supporting one another, keep your porch lights on, and if you’ve got news worth sharing, you know where to find me.”
Her finger pressed the fader.
An old Fleetwood Mac song drifted into the room.
The station relaxed.
Maeve slipped off her headphones and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
The town was awake now.
Kids were heading to school.
The diner would be filling up.
Someone, somewhere, was probably listening while making coffee.
That thought always made the building feel less lonely.
She gathered the scattered flyers into neat piles.
The blood drive.
The garage sale.
The church bake sale she’d forgotten to mention.
She’d get it tomorrow.
As she reached to stop the recording, something made her hesitate.
There.
Right at the end.
A sound.
Barely noticeable.
Like someone speaking beneath the music.
She frowned.
“Probably bled through another track.”
She dragged the recording back fifteen seconds.
Pressed play.
She listened.
Nothing.
Just her own voice.
Fleetwood Mac.
Silence.
She rewound it again.
Listened harder.
Still nothing.
Maeve shook her head.
Too many late nights.
Too much coffee.
She archived the recording and moved on.
The inbox held six new emails.
A thank-you from the historical society for mentioning their fundraiser.
A correction about the shelter’s opening hours.
Someone asking if she could announce a missing tabby cat.
A complaint that she’d played too much classic rock this week.
Another requesting more classic rock.
Those two arrived almost every Tuesday.
The last email simply read:
Love having you on in the mornings. Makes the town feel awake.
No signature.
Maeve smiled anyway.
She typed back.
Happy to keep you company.
She stretched until her back popped.
“Cigarette.”
The station agreed with its familiar silence.
She shrugged into a faded flannel, grabbed the pack from beside the coffee maker, and stepped outside.
Main Street unfolded before her.
Eelridge wasn’t the sort of town people stumbled into.
You either belonged there...
...or you had a reason for coming.
Morning sunlight caught the old brick storefronts that had watched generations grow old. The hardware store opened its doors with the same rusty squeal every day. Mrs. Alvarez was already sweeping the sidewalk outside her bakery. Across the street, Sheriff Cole tipped his hat as he crossed toward the diner, where the smell of bacon drifted through the crisp air.
Beyond the rooftops stood the old water tower with EELRIDGE painted across its faded steel, watching over the town like a patient sentinel. And farther still, past the church steeple and the last row of houses, the dark tree line wrapped around Blackwater Lake, where morning mist lingered long after the sun had risen.
Maeve lit her cigarette and leaned against the brick wall of Moss Frequency.
She took a slow drag, exhaled into the cool air, and watched the smoke drift toward the lake.
For a town this quiet...
Eelridge had an awful lot of stories.
