She woke to her phone buzzing on the bedside table.
One missed call. No number. No voicemail.

The time stamp read 3:06 AM.

Her heart skipped. That was the time he used to call, back when sleep wouldn’t come and the world felt too heavy. She told herself it was coincidence. Phones glitch. Memories lie.

Still, she checked her call history every night after that.

On the seventh night, the phone rang in her hand.

Unknown number.
3:06 AM.

She answered, breath shaking.
Silence—then a soft inhale on the other end.

“I just wanted to know,” a voice whispered, “if you still keep the light on.”

The call ended.

Her lamp flickered.

Signing off…

Mira fell asleep with the radio on again, the soft hiss of static filling the room like fog. She’d started leaving it on ever since the nights began feeling too quiet, too hollow, like something was waiting for her to notice it.

At 2:17 AM, the static sharpened. Shifted. A faint voice slipped through the noise.

“Mira…?”

She jolted upright. Her name—clearly spoken, threaded through the static like someone whispering underwater.

She turned the dial with shaking fingers. More static. A crackle. Then again:

“I can’t find you.”

Her chest tightened. It sounded familiar, achingly so. A voice she hadn’t heard since last winter’s accident. A voice she missed every day.

“No,” she whispered. “You’re gone.”

On the radio, the static swelled… then softened, as if exhaling.

“Then why,” the voice murmured, “are you still listening?”

The radio clicked off by itself.

And the room wasn’t quiet anymore.

Signing off…

Every night, at 11:03 pm, the light flickered on in the window across the street. Always the soft yellow glow, the same shadow dancing behind the curtain. She used to think it was comforting- a quiet presence existing beside her.

When she moved into this apartment, she didn’t know anyone in this city. That window became an anchor. Sometimes, she’d make tea and sit by the window, watching the silhouette across the street. The person there moved like clockwork- pacing, reading, sitting perfectly still. Once, on a lonely night in July, she waved. And the shadow, after a pause, waved back, ever so silently.

They never spoke. Never met. But she began timing her evenings to that light, that soft, blooming glow at 11:03 pm.

Then one night, the light didn’t come on. Not at 11:03, not at 11:10. Not even as she stayed up till 12:00 am, waiting as her heart tightened with something that almost felt like grief.

A week later, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She crossed the street, found the building’s buzzer and pressed. No answer. The hallway inside smelled like dust and rainwater. Apartment 4B-the window opposite hers- was empty. Stripped bare. A thin layer of dust on the floor.

The landlord said nobody had lived there in 3 years.

That night, at 11:03, the light flicked on again.

Signing off…

The platform was empty except for her and the clock that hadn’t ticked in years. The train arrived soundlessly, doors sliding open without a conductor in sight. She stepped in, heart racing. The carriage smelled of rain and old paper. Every seat was filled—not with people, but with coats, hats, and shoes, arranged as though their owners had only just vanished.

As the doors closed, she caught her reflection in the window. She was already wearing someone else’s coat.

Signing off…

He offered her his umbrella, tilting it shyly above her head. She laughed, a million twinkling bells, saying she loved the rain.

So, they walked, drenched, droplets clinging to flowing silhouettes. Shoulders brushing, sneakers splashing through puddles, laughter and the occasional sneeze punctuated the air. Every streetlight seemed to glow with a tender light, every raindrop a gentle caress.

They didn’t say it out loud, but both of them- they’d remember that walk long after they were in the close comfort of their homes.

No one believed the sky would collapse, or that stars would fall- but she kept folding them anyway- tiny paper ones, tucked in glass jars that glimmered under the silver kiss of moonlight.

They were too eternal, too distant for human hands.

No one had been to this sacred place in years. She shouldn’t have gone to the old lighthouse, not alone, on a night where danger lurked around shadowed corners and ominous whispers permeated the very essence of the air. One could never know what happened under the stifling blanket of darkness.

For those who haven’t read the prequel to this story, here is the link-(The Box In The Attic (Part 1) | Mili’s Mindscape (miliscape.com))

Enjoy!

A few days. A few hours. That’s how less it can take to completely change you. It’s almost amusing, when your life seems normal, you’re on your daily routine, grabbing a cup of coffee, running for the bus because you’ll be late to school or work, birthdays, Christmas, a happy, picturesque, maybe monotonous, sometimes boring, typical week. Restart. Repeat. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Sundays, stretching on and on and on. Nothing extraordinary or abnormal…right?