There’s a hum beneath the floorboards,
low and constant, like regret rehearsing its lines.
Mother whispers, it’s the furnace.
I know better.

Every winter thickens the air with ghosts of burnt dust.
Pipes rattle like baby teeth in a jar.
Somewhere below the crawlspace,
something breathes—slow, measured, patient.

I press my ear to the vent.
a sound like water learning to drown itself.
I want to call it father,
but the word still bites when I try.

The house has arteries of copper and rust.
When the heat kicks on,
it’s like blood remembering its purpose.

I walk room to room,
touch walls that remember me younger,
fewer scars, smaller prayers.
The hum grows louder when I stop listening.

If I open the door to the basement,
will it stop pretending to be warmth?
Will it speak the truth—
that every home is a body,
and every body, a burning house?