The Tower Light

He tapped the digital clock on the rickety desk as he plopped down into a dilapidated arm chair.


He would recive his first message of the day in 4 minutes, and he readied his pen and paper. He clicked on the radio and like clockwork, at 4:25, a clear, russian voice filled the room.

“Reley from Orefejk Greenland to Washington America, station 827.26…”

The voice proceded to ramble about an uninteresting topic and Richards pen moved subconsciously in his hands, soon to be reread into a small mic.

This was Richards daily chore, and had gone exactly like this for 23 years, until the light appeared.

The first message of the day was to be at 5:30, and instead of its normally crisp voice, the russian accent came almost inaudible under a loud crackle. He quickly jumped from the booth to check the antenea. It was fine, but somthing else caught his eye. Atop the barly visable tower was a small red light, blinking ominously in the haze of heavey snow.

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