2:17 Hallway Light

The new house was quiet in a way that felt practiced, like it knew when to hold its breath.

Every night at exactly 2:17 a.m., the hallway light turned on. At first,

Maya blamed the wiring. Old houses did that, her parents said. Still,

she started locking her bedroom door before sleeping. The light kept turning on anyway,

glowing under the crack of the door like a thin, watchful eye. One night,

she stayed awake to catch it. 2:16 a.m. Silence. 2:17 a.m.

Click. The light came on. And then she heard something new. Footsteps.

They were soft. Careful. They stopped right outside her door. Maya held her breath.