The Other Side of Quiet

Every night at 3:17 a.m., Mark heard the knock—three sharp raps on the attic door. He never checked.

He told himself it was the house settling, rats, the wind. But tonight, the silence afterward felt different. Expectant.

He crept up, flashlight in hand, trembling. Opened the attic. Empty.

Relief.

Then his phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: “Thank you.”

Mark turned, and there he was—an identical version of himself, smiling too wide, eyes too calm.

“You finally let me out,” the twin whispered, stepping past him.

The attic door slammed shut.

Now it’s Mark who knocks.