The silence after the last song of the night

It’s 10:07, and I just played ‘Dreams’ by Fleetwood Mac for the third time this week. Not because it’s special—though it is—but because the moment between the final note and the station ID feels like the only real space left in the world. The kind where you can hear your own breath, or the hum of a fridge three rooms away. I used to think that was dead air. Now I know it’s the ghost of something that kept me awake at 2am, years ago, when no one else was listening. Still isn’t.