You ride out the fog under a roof, which is a kind of courage people forget to clap for.

The moan thins until it is only metal. The barometer’s drop matches the radio’s offshore mutter, which matches the way the droplets on the window stop arriving like a march. A “haunted horn” is weather plus stone. In the morning it will be a puddle, a clean smell, a story you can tell at breakfast without whispering.

Headlamps. Tess. Ruiz with a crate of sense. They find you in the shed like a person who chose a roof.

“The station that breathes,” Tess says, looking at the throat as if to thank it for the lesson. “You didn’t chase it. You measured it.”

You walk back on the planks. The answering lights are still lying, politely, to anyone who wants a hull. You want cocoa. You want the log. You want, surprisingly, sleep.

THE END

What you learned: a delayed boom is an echo off a hard surface; fog forms when moist air cools to its dew point; falling pressure is weather, not a mood. Instruments are how you watch a night without becoming its story.