Knock knock

day 12 of 30

It starts the same way every night.

Three knocks.
3:17 a.m. exactly.
Never early, never late.

You have stopped pretending it doesn’t scare you. At first, you told yourself it was pipes, or wind, or a bad dream that repeats itself because your mind is too tired to let it go. But dreams don’t leave the faint echo of wood against wood. They don’t make the doorknob tremble.

Tonight, you decide to open it.

The hallway feels longer than it should. Every step creaks like a warning. You do not turn on the light, because something deep in you believes you should not see it clearly, whatever it is.

You reach the door.
You wait.
Nothing.

Then, quietly, you unlock it.

The air outside is sharp and cold, the kind that feels older than the night itself. The street is empty. No cars. No wind. Just a stillness that feels aware.

You are about to close it when you notice something strange on the ground, wet footprints. Bare. Human. They stop right at your doorstep, facing inward.

You look down at your own feet. Bare too. The same size. The same shape.

You whisper, “Hello?”

And the world answers with a voice that sounds exactly like yours.

“About time.”

Someone is standing just beyond the light, head tilted, smiling like they have been waiting a very long time. Their eyes shine in the dark, not with light, but with reflection, your reflection.

Then they say softly, “You kept sleeping through my knocks. I have been trying to come home.”

Before you can step back, they move forward. And you finally understand.
You were not waking up to the sound.
You were the one knocking.