In the small hours, when the world narrows to the glow of a single candle and the hiss of a microphone, Luna takes her seat in the sound-foam booth. The sign reads 'OFF AIR,' but the recording light is on. Each episode of Goodnight, Listener is a self-contained story — a lullaby from the dark side of the pillow. Luna's voice, hushed and intimate, leads you through tales of the uncanny that feel less like fiction and more like confessions overheard after midnight. These are stories about the things that live in the margins: the secondhand shop doll that remembers its previous owner, the radio station that broadcasts on frequencies only the missing can hear, the neighbor whose basement door is always locked but never silent. There are no happy endings here, only the slow recognition that the world is stranger and crueler than we pretend. The unifying thread is not a setting or a character but a mood — the quiet dread of knowing that you are not alone, and that whatever is with you has been there all along. So turn off the lights, pull the covers up, and listen. But maybe don't close your eyes.

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