The Warmth Feels Like a Warning

You’re just sitting on the porch, chain-smoking your way through the ache of another hollow evening. The wood beneath you groans with age, soft rot curling beneath the paint, like everything else in this small, New England town. There's a thin fog rolling off the fields, clinging to the ground like it knows something you don't. Hallucinogenics hums low from the radio—just loud enough to feel like a thought that isn’t yours. You flick the ash off your cigarette and watch it disappear into the darkness, wondering if it’s always been this quiet or if you’ve just gone numb to the noise.

Your phone buzzes again. Mom. Third time in twenty minutes. You let it go to voicemail like you did the first two. She means well, but you don’t have the energy to pretend you’re okay tonight. The cold is coming soon—you can feel it in your teeth. But for now, it’s warm. Too warm. The kind of warm that feels like a warning. You take another drag, let the smoke coat your lungs, and stare out past the porch like maybe something will finally stare back.

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This atmosphere sound has been released under the
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