Chapter Three
978 Words
Ethan woke to the sound of humming.
Not music. Not the refrigerator.
A low, steady vibration that seemed to live inside the walls.
He lay still in the recliner, eyes closed, listening. The sound faded after a few seconds, dissolving into the familiar quiet of the house. When he opened his eyes, the early morning sunlight spilled through the blinds in narrow stripes across the living room floor, sharp and clean. The recliner held him exactly as it always did. Leather warm against his back. Familiar weight. Familiar pressure.
He stretched slowly. His shoulders protested. His lower back followed. The dull ache in his hip lingered longer than usual, but not enough to matter. He cataloged it and moved on.
The house was empty. Clara had already left. Sophie's room stood untouched, bed made, charger unplugged. The absence felt normal. Expected. He liked knowing where everyone was without having to ask.
He stood and moved toward the kitchen.
The tiles were cool beneath his feet. He made coffee by memory, hands moving without conscious thought—beans, grinder, water to the line. The machine hissed, steam rising as the smell filled the air.
For a moment, the scent shifted.
Metallic.
Sharp, like the inside of a battery.
Ethan paused, nostrils flaring. The smell corrected itself almost immediately, returning to rich bitterness and warmth. He poured the coffee anyway, watched the liquid swirl into the mug.
Sunlight crept farther into the room as he took the first sip.
Hot. Normal.
He let out a breath and turned on the stereo. Journey again. He did not question it. Steve Perry's voice filled the house, smooth and grounding. He let it play as he walked through the living room, straightening cushions, adjusting the rug with his foot.
That was when the light flickered.
One stripe of sunlight—just one—shuddered, dimmed, then brightened again.
Ethan froze.
The stripe pulsed once more, briefly, like a failing fluorescent bulb. With it came a sound.
A faint buzz-click.
High-pitched. Electrical.
He tilted his head, listening. The rest of the house remained silent. The air conditioner hummed normally. The refrigerator vibrated faintly. The music continued uninterrupted.
The stripe of sunlight steadied.
Ethan frowned, eyes fixed on the floor. Sunlight didn't behave like that. He knew that. The desert sun was constant, brutal, honest. It didn't flicker.
He waited.
Nothing else happened.
After a moment, he shook his head once and moved on, though his steps were slower now, more deliberate. He poured the rest of his coffee out and rinsed the mug, the sound of water grounding him again.
Outside, the garden waited.
He stepped into the backyard, the heat already building. The plants stood in their neat rows—tomatoes, basil, oregano—leaves catching the light. He knelt, careful of his hip, and pressed his fingers into the soil.
Warm. Dry. Real.
He adjusted a tomato plant that leaned slightly to one side, pressing the stake deeper. The sunlight above him shifted.
For just a second, a shadow passed over the garden.
Not clouds—there weren't any.
The shadow moved against the sun's direction, sliding the wrong way across the ground.
Ethan straightened slowly, heart thudding once, hard. He scanned the sky. Clear. Empty. Blue stretching endlessly in every direction.
When he looked back down, the shadow was gone.
The garden looked exactly as it should.
He rubbed his hands together, brushing off soil, and stood. The pressure behind his eyes returned, heavier now, like something pressing inward from both sides. He closed his eyes briefly, counted his breaths, and forced the sensation down.
Inside, emails had piled up. He answered them one by one, fingers flying across the keyboard, letting logic and structure reassert themselves. A call came in from Florida. Numbers. Timelines. Corrections.
"Run it again," he said calmly. "Your output doesn't match the input. Something's corrupt."
He paused after he said it, the word lingering longer than it should have.
Corrupt.
The call ended. He stared at his reflection in the darkened monitor for a moment, then minimized the screen.
Lunch came and went quietly. Sophie returned briefly, grabbed food, kissed his cheek, and disappeared again. Clara texted that she'd be late. The house felt hollow but functional.
Mid-afternoon, the hum returned.
Low. Steady.
It came from nowhere and everywhere at once, vibrating faintly through the floor, through the walls, through his chest. Ethan stood still, listening. It sounded wrong. Mechanical. Too precise.
Then—just as suddenly—it stopped.
The silence afterward felt heavy.
He rubbed his hip absently and winced as a sharp pulse shot through it, stronger than before. He steadied himself on the counter, waiting for the pain to recede. When it did, he stayed there a moment longer than necessary, breathing evenly.
Dinner prep followed. Knife. Board. Heat. Motion. Music changed without him noticing—something heavier, faster. The beat pressed into him insistently, almost syncing with his pulse.
As he stirred the sauce, he felt it again.
A brush against his hand.
Not warm this time.
Neutral. Pressure without temperature.
He pulled his hand back and stared at the empty air beside him. The sensation lingered for half a second longer than before, then faded.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
"Latency," he murmured, though he wasn't sure why.
Night came gradually. The desert sky darkened, stars appearing faint and distant. Inside, the house settled into its evening rhythm.
He sank into the recliner, limbs heavy, eyes tired. The pressure behind his eyes remained, unmoving. The memory of flickering light and buzzing sound hovered just beneath his thoughts.
He didn't chase it.
Tomorrow would bring order again. Light that behaved. Sound that made sense.
He closed his eyes and let the hum of the house carry him.
Even as, somewhere deep inside, something clicked softly—like a system retrying a failed process.
- Writer
