That night, Selene awoke to the sound of faint knocking.

Her eyes snapped open, her pulse hammering as she strained to listen. The knocking came again, soft and deliberate, echoing through the stillness of the house.

She sat up slowly, her breath caught in her throat. The sound wasn’t coming from the front door—it was coming from inside.

Gathering her courage, she grabbed the nearest heavy object—a cast-iron fireplace poker—and crept toward the noise.

The knocking grew louder as she approached the study. When she pushed the door open, her breath hitched.

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The letters were scattered across the desk, the envelopes torn open as though by invisible hands. The diary lay open, its pages fluttering in a wind that wasn’t there.

And then she heard it—a voice, low and distant, whispering her name.

“Selene…”

She froze, every muscle in her body locking in place. The voice wasn’t coming from the room. It was coming from the clock.

The steady ticking slowed, each second stretching into an eternity. The hands on its face moved erratically, the second hand jumping backward before stuttering forward again.

“Selene…” the voice whispered again, louder this time.

Her grip on the poker tightened as she stepped closer, her heart pounding in her ears. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, as though time itself had shifted.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice shaking.

The clock fell silent, its hands stopping abruptly at 11:47.

And then, in the silence that followed, a single envelope appeared on the desk where none had been before.