The Midnight Hum

The compressor kicks in with a shudder, a low, industrial growl that anchors the room. In the blue-white glare of the open door, the milk carton casts a long, lonely shadow.

It breathes a cold fog against my knuckles, preserving the ghosts of summer fruit and the sharp, metallic scent of winter. The magnetic seal yields with a soft, rubbery sigh.

Outside, the city is a muffled pulse of traffic, but here, the ice tray cracks its knuckles in the dark. A steady, rhythmic thrumming in the floorboards— the heartbeat of a house that refuses to sleep.