Noah hadn't slept properly in three days.
Every night, the knocking came.
Every night, at 3:03 A.M., from the inside of his door.
And every morning, he woke up on the floor — facing the door, hand raised like he'd been the one knocking.
He tried everything.
Pushing furniture against the entrance.
Leaving all the lights on.
Even staying awake with two cans of Red Bull and a baseball bat.
But sometime between 3:02 and 3:04, he always lost time.
This morning, when he woke up, he noticed something new.
The mirror in his bathroom — cracked, thinly, right down the center.
Like something inside it wanted out.
The mirror had never been there before.
He could swear on his broke student soul it wasn't hanging above the sink when he first moved in.
It was old, oval, with a frame that looked like tarnished silver.
At first, he thought the crack was just damage from the humidity.
Then he looked closer.
The reflection was wrong.
When he moved his arm, his reflection hesitated — a second too late.
When he blinked, it didn't.
"Nope. Nope. Nope."
He stepped back, gripping the sink. "It's just stress, right? Or caffeine withdrawal. Or both."
He turned off the light, then turned it back on.
Still there.
Still watching.
The reflection smiled.
Noah's breath hitched. "That's not— that's not funny."
He spun around, heart racing. No one behind him.
He turned back. The reflection looked normal again — tired eyes, messy hair, haunted expression.
He laughed shakily. "Okay. You officially need sleep, my guy."
But as he walked out, the mirror fogged up slightly, even though the air was cold.
And written in the fog, a single word appeared, faint and wet:
"STAY."
That night, Noah didn't even pretend to sleep.
He set up his laptop camera again — this time pointed directly at the door — and kept his phone flashlight on.
He sat on the floor, blanket around his shoulders, bat in hand, staring at the clock.
2:59 A.M.
2:60—
Wait.
The seconds froze.
The digital clock just… stopped at 3:00:00.
His breath fogged.
The lights dimmed.
The air felt thick, like water pressing against his skin.
And then the sound came.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
From inside the door.
He held his breath. "Not again."
The laptop camera blinked — recording.
He forced himself to crawl closer, whispering to himself, "You're gonna catch it this time. You'll see what it is."
He reached for the handle.
And the door… unlocked itself.
The knob turned slowly — once, twice — and stopped.
Noah froze.
He wanted to run, scream, do anything but sit there.
Instead, he whispered, "Who's there?"
The silence was thick.
Then a voice — soft, familiar, just beyond the door — whispered back:
"You are."