No one in the building ever spoke about the door at the end of the hall. It was old, its wood scarred, its brass handle dulled with age. Tenants passed it daily, groceries in hand, eyes carefully averted.

Lena noticed it her first week after moving in, when she realized that every other apartment had names, numbers, lives—except that one. The landlord brushed off her questions with a nervous laugh, but his eyes betrayed something he dared not say.

One night, when the corridor lay silent and the clock ticked toward midnight, Lena heard it: three soft knocks echoing from behind the door. Her skin prickled as she stood frozen, her heart syncing with each hollow thud.

Then a whisper slid through the keyhole—“We’ve been waiting.”