In the concrete bowels of a decommissioned Cold War listening post, a single operator still turns the dial. Luna sits at the console, scanning frequencies that haven't carried official traffic in decades. But the static isn't empty. Through the hiss, she picks up fragments: a missing family's last microwave transmission, a dead soldier's field radio still calling for extraction, a weather buoy reporting impossible temperatures. The signals come from places that no longer exist—or never did. Each episode of The Listening Post is a recorded dispatch, a captured signal from the edge of known geography. Luna pieces together what happened to the people on the other end, but the transmissions grow stranger, more insistent, and they seem to know she's listening. The dial trembles. The red pins on the wall map form a pattern she didn't place. This is not a collection of ghost stories; it is a log of evidence from the collapse. You are not meant to hear this. But the post is still manned, and the signal is still coming through.

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