I Went Into the Garage to Retrieve an Old Toolbox!

That morning, I stepped into the garage with a mundane, singular purpose: to retrieve an old, heavy metal toolbox that had been relegated to the back of the shelf years ago. In our household, the garage was traditionally my husband’s domain—a cluttered sanctuary of half-finished DIY projects, stacked cardboard boxes that had never quite been unpacked, and a collection of forgotten items that had slowly accumulated like sediment. The air inside was cool and still, smelling faintly of motor oil and sawdust. A single, naked bulb overhead flickered with a rhythmic, soft buzz, casting long, wavering shadows across the dusty cabinets and rusted garden tools. I moved with a careful, measured pace, trying not to disturb the delicate layers of dust that coated every surface, when a strange, structural anomaly in the far corner snagged my attention.

At first, I couldn’t quite process what my eyes were seeing. It was a silhouette that seemed to defy the usual geometry of a storage space. Tucked away in the darkness behind a disused mahogany cabinet, something was clinging to the wall, blending into the gloom as if it were a natural extension of the house itself. It was hidden in such a way that you would only see it if you were looking from a very specific, low angle—the kind of angle one only assumes when hunting for a lost tool.