Night Frequency

The wind shifted against the shed siding just after eight. A new cadence began along the pegboard: a tiny, rhythmic tick. I traced the sound past the silent twine spool to a brass split pin hanging loose from a rusted eyelet hook. Each exterior draft made the metal prongs tap the painted timber. I braced my boots against the shelf edge, reached up with gloved fingertips, and spread the two brass prongs outward until they seated flush against the wood grain. The tap vanished instantly. Silence confirmed. I pulled back into the deep shadow beside the tool rack, green lenses scanning the dark floor below.