3:17 Erasure

Every night at 3:17 a.m., someone new disappears. There’s no pattern. No warning.

No connection between victims. They don’t die—they’re simply gone. Beds empty.

Cameras glitch. Names vanish from class rosters and work schedules like they were never

typed. Except I remember them. At first, I thought grief

was making me dramatic. My neighbor’s dog vanished one night, and no one else noticed.

The leash stayed by the door, the food bowl full. When I asked about it,

my neighbor frowned. “What dog?” The disappearances escalated. A cashier.

A teacher. A woman who sat next to me on the bus every morning. I watched the seat