I'm still playing the last song they ever sent in

It was 2:17 a.m., and the request line crackled like old vinyl—just a whisper: 'Play it again, Pernille.' I didn’t know who it was. The voice was thin, frayed at the edges. I played 'Cry Me a River' anyway. Not the original, but the version with the strings swelling just before the bridge, the one that used to make me cry when I was younger. I didn’t know then that it was the last time anyone called in. Now I dream about that moment—how the static held the shape of a name I never heard. And sometimes, in the quiet between songs, I swear I hear it again: not a request, but a reply.