Every night at exactly 2:17 a.m., someone knocked on the bedroom door.
Three knocks.
Slow.
Polite.
At first, Meera thought it was her mother.
The house was old—too old for silence. It creaked, sighed, remembered. Sounds traveled strangely through its narrow halls. So she ignored it.
Until the knocks came again the next night.
And the next.
Always at 2:17 a.m.
Meera checked the time with shaking hands. Every single time, the clock glowed back the same numbers, like the house itself was counting.
One night, she finally asked, her voice barely a breath.
“Ma?”
Silence.
Then, softly, from the other side of the door—
“Open it, Meera.”
Her blood turned cold.
Her mother had died three months ago.
The door handle didn’t move. It never did. Whoever knocked never tried to enter. They only waited.
Meera began sleeping with the lights on. With music playing. With prayers she barely believed in anymore. Still, at 2:17 a.m., the knocking returned.
Three knocks.
Slow.
Patient.
One night, the voice sounded different.
Tired.
“Why don’t you open the door?” it asked. “I stood outside your hospital room too. You didn’t answer then either.”
Meera covered her ears, tears soaking into her pillow.
“I was scared,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to watch you die.”
The house fell silent.
No knocks. No voice.
For the first time in weeks, Meera slept.
At 6:00 a.m., her phone buzzed.
A reminder she had set months ago, without remembering why:
Mom’s chemo appointment – 2:17 a.m.
Meera stared at the locked door.
That night, there were no knocks.
Just the sound of something walking away down the hallway.
Slowly
