I only meant to spend a minute in the garage. The plan was simple: grab the old toolbox from the corner, tighten the squeaky kitchen hinge that had been bothering me for weeks, and move on with the day. I’d even checked the clock, certain ten minutes—fifteen at most—would be enough. It was an ordinary errand, the kind you barely think about.
But the moment I stepped inside, something felt off. The garage, usually just a practical space filled with tools, bicycles, and dusty boxes of forgotten holiday decorations, seemed unusually still. The air felt heavier, quieter, as if it were holding its breath. Even the faint hum I’d grown used to—the refrigerator in the corner, the distant street noise—seemed absent.
I paused just past the doorway, listening. Nothing obvious had changed, yet the familiar comfort of the room had shifted into something harder to name. What should have been a quick, forgettable task suddenly didn’t feel routine at all.
