The scrapyard was up behind the farm, not far from her home. The friendly dog padded over as usual, sniffed her hand, and started following her as she poked around the piles of junk. Rod, the owner, had given her a slight nod when she turned up, and she was vaguely aware he had his eye on her. However, there weren’t any spare parts for space rockets or air shuttles, no matter how hard she looked, and she didn’t think the inners of washing machines and rusty bed frames were up to scratch. There were a couple of car radios though, really old ones with wires trailing out. Casually she turned the loose dial of one, which was when she had her next brilliant idea. She might not be able to go into space herself, but she could listen. She could tune in to her mum’s ship where all others had failed, find that lost signal amongst the stars. Picking up both the radios, in case she needed spare parts, she turned to find Rod. He was unloading his truck, and when he saw what she was carrying, his stare deepened and he frowned, drawing his bushy eyebrows together.

“How much?” she asked, hoping desperately that all the coins in her piggybank would be enough.

“Just take them,” he replied gruffly. “No one else wants them.”

He turned away before she could fully thank him.

Phase two involved the library, the one in town with three floors. Dad didn’t let her use the computer at home much, but there were plenty there she could access. There were also books with diagrams and plans she could bring home.

She raided Dad’s toolbox, spread screws and wires on newspaper, and started exploring the inside of one of the radios. A couple of hours later when turning the dial, she picked up static, the "crackle of the universe" her mum used to call it. She needed some fine tuning, then perhaps she’d hear her mum again. A few minutes later and a voice broke out of the radio, squawking across the room. For a split second, a tiny moment in time, she had hope, then she realised it was the local news station and she slumped, head in hands. Dad found her in the room with the crackly radio, and as he hugged her, she realised he was skinnier than he used to be, his eyes red-rimmed since they and the world had stopped receiving messages from her mum.

“Just because the radio signal was lost, doesn’t mean she is.”

She nodded.

“She’ll be thinking of you, holding you in her heart, talking to you in her head.”

“Perhaps it’s her voice I heard, telling me to fix the radio,” she replied.

“That’s my clever girl, keep going to the library, reading those books, and perhaps one day you’ll be the one to build the radio that picks up her signal again.”

“Then she won’t be lost in space anymore.” She smiled.

___

KAREN F. PIERCE (she/her) is a writer, librarian, and artist based in South Wales, UK. She has a PhD on Helen of Troy, enjoys visiting stone circles and researching their folklore, and thinking up stories and poems on her early morning walks. She has published fiction and poetry in Northern Gravy, Bubble, Paperbound, Swim Press, and with Arachne Press. You can find her on Bluesky and Instagram @Darklecat