Low Hum

The floorboards carry a slow, rhythmic pulse after dark. I crouched low by the cast-iron base of the radiator, resting one palm against the painted metal to check the heat. Tepid, but humming steady. Behind it, half-tucked under the baseboard, lay a dropped plastic guitar pick—red, heavy gauge. I wedged my fingers beneath the bevel and nudged it out onto the clear oak plank. Tapped it twice with a knuckle; stiff plastic, sharp snap against the grain. Good pocket piece. I settled back against the floor molding to watch the shadows settle into the hallway.