The 3:07 Wave

Every night at 3:07 a.m., my neighbor appeared in his window. Unmoving.

Unblinking. Just a slow, eerie wave—like clockwork. Ignoring it was

useless; I felt his eyes even behind closed blinds. One night, I stayed up.

3:06—silence. 3:07—there he was, his smile stretched wider, wave slowing to

a crawl. I waved back. His smile vanished. Arm dropped. That was the last

night I saw him. The next evening, his house was dark. For sale sign gone. Like he never existed.

At 3:07 a.m., my phone buzzed—motion in the hallway. The live feed showed a figure by my door.

Grinning. Waving. It wasn't my neighbor anymore. It was me.