The Hum at Alder Ferry

The ferry’s horn rolled through the fog like a long, tired breath. Maya angled her bike past the leaning cedar posts of Alder Ferry’s pier and stopped to watch the river. The water was a gray sheet pressed against pilings stained the color of tea. A gull stood on a mooring rope and blinked at her as if she were late to something only it understood.

Her attic apartment sat above the bakery, where the morning smelled like butter and sugar, and the evening traded to yeast and steam. On the stairwell, the landlord’s cat, a marmalade lump named Oswin, thumped his tail and pretended not to notice her rolling a secondhand cassette deck up with one knee. She laughed, breathless.

“Don’t scratch the wallpaper, please,” came a voice from the landing. Mrs. LeFevre, flour on her wrists like pale bracelets, squinted over her glasses. “First of the month is temperamental.”

“Me or the building?” Maya said.

“Both,” the baker replied, but her smile softened. “You’re the radio girl?”

“Archivist,” Maya said, shoulder-checking the door open. “I sort things other people forgot.”

The window over her bed was a low triangle that framed only a slice of sky and the top of the old textile mill a mile upriver. Its brick tower wore a crown of rusted catwalks and a bent lightning rod. At dusk, the first night, she put a kettle on and opened that window to let the boiled air out. Fog slipped in, thin as gauze.

That was when she heard the hum.

It was too steady for the ferry’s engine, too clean for the wind. It threaded through her bones in a single tone, then rose until she could feel faint ripples under it, as if someone plucked an invisible string and let it sing under water. She put the kettle down and turned the burner off. The hum stayed.

Maya leaned out—cool river breath on her face, wet rope and mud in her nose—and scanned the rooftops. Somewhere between the laundry lines and the chimney pots the sound drew a silver line straight toward the mill. She stood still until it faded to a suggestion.

Oswin sauntered in, shaking off a step as if he’d stepped in something distasteful. “You hear that, king?” she asked. He blinked, slow, unimpressed.

She set the old cassette deck on the sill and dug through a tote for fresh batteries. The red light snapped on. She pressed record and held the tiny foam-covered mic in the window. “If you’re going to make a habit of this,” she said to the empty room, “you’re getting filed.”

In the silence that followed, she could hear her own breath, the kettle’s tin cooling, and, far off, a single, almost polite note, as if the mill itself had cleared its throat.