2:17 at My Door

I live in a quiet apartment building—too quiet. So when footsteps started stopping

outside my door every night at 2:17 a.m., I noticed. No knock.

No key. Just standing there. On the fifth night, I opened the door. Nothing.

Only a paper on my mat: I’M JUST CHECKING IF YOU’RE STILL YOU.

More notes followed. In my mailbox. On my fridge. YOU MOVED DIFFERENT TODAY.

WHEN DID YOU STOP REMEMBERING YOUR MOTHER’S VOICE? I changed the locks. Set up a camera.

At 2:17, my phone buzzed: motion detected. The hallway was empty—until the

camera shifted. Slowly. My own face filled the screen, smiling.