At exactly 2:17 a.m., the old radio in Mara’s room turned itself on.

Static crackled, then a voice—her voice.

“Don’t open the door,” it whispered.

Mara sat up, heart pounding. She lived alone. The radio hadn’t worked in years.

A knock sounded anyway. Slow. Polite.

“Mara,” a man called softly, “I know you’re awake.”

The radio hissed again. “He learned your name today. He can’t come in unless you invite him.”

The doorknob began to turn.

Mara backed away, shaking. “Who are you?” she asked the radio.

A pause. Then: “I’m the version of you that didn’t listen.”

The knocking stopped.

Silence swallowed the room.

The radio clicked off.

And somewhere down the hall, a door opened.