The house is a wooden drum, and you are the person with the sticks.

You start the knocks you already caught: a shutter, a vent, a flue—whichever parts of the drum you opened. You stop them: hook what you can hook, hold what you can hold, wait for the gust to pass. The chimney “voice,” if you stood at it, is air in a pipe. You say oooo into your cupped hands and the house answers in a lower key. Mice resume their small commute, or they never clocked in. Nothing answers in words. Pareidolia packed its bag.

You write the proof while it is repeatable. That is the difference between a scare and a finding.

The storm moves its furniture overhead. The cottage does not grow teeth. It grows ticking, settling, the ordinary noises of timber that got wet and is thinking about it.

Aunt Mara will find the notes, or she will find you asleep on the couch with the lantern on its dimmest setting, which is also a kind of science: rest after work.

You can put the proof in the notebook as a finished log.

You can sleep, safe, and let dawn be ordinary on purpose.