The Copper Pulse

The walls hold a low, steady thrum, a secret vibration of copper and lead threading through the lath and plaster, where the house breathes in its sleep.

Outside, the frost laces the window-panes, but here, the current is a warm river coursing toward the yellow bulb in the hall, a fragile star suspended in a wooden sky.

Listen to the click of the cooling pipes, the rhythmic sigh of the furnace below; we are anchored by these hidden wires, tethered to the light by a thousand glowing veins.