Every time the commercial sign down the block blinks from red to blue, my radio clicks over to static for a microsecond. Nobody else in the house hears it. I've asked. My sister just looks at me like I've started a sentence I shouldn't finish. But the frequency is definitely vibrating through my bedroom window pane, because I put my hand flat against the glass once and felt it move. Not a rattle. A pulse. Like the window was listening back.
I started writing the times down. Not to be careful, just because I couldn't sleep and the page was there. After nine nights the pattern was obvious: it only happens when the sign is red. The moment it turns blue, the static cuts, the radio returns to whatever station was on, and for exactly four seconds the house is completely silent. No fridge. No pipes. No my own breathing, even though I know I'm breathing. Then everything resumes, a half-beat late, like the world forgot the downbeat and had to catch up.
The part I haven't told anyone: last Tuesday the sign stayed red. It just held there, solid, for eleven minutes, and my radio did not click to static once. It played music. A song I almost recognized, wordless, all tone. I followed it downstairs to the front door with my shoes in my hand, and when I opened it the sign was blue again and the street was empty and the song was gone. My radio was unplugged. It had been unplugged since I moved in. I am certain of that the way you are certain of your own name, and I am less certain of my name than I used to be.
I'm not asking for help. I'm posting this because if it's happening to someone else, they should know they aren't the only one who noticed the red. And if it isn't happening to anyone else, then I need a record that proves I was here to notice it. The lights keep a record of us. I think we should keep one of them.