It was exactly 2:03 a.m. when Layla’s phone rang.
Unknown Number.
Half-asleep and annoyed, she almost ignored it.
But something—curiosity, instinct—made her swipe.
A child’s voice whispered:
“Don’t let him in.”
The call ended.
Layla sat upright, heart pounding.
She lived alone. No kids. No neighbours with kids.
Goosebumps crept over her arms. She locked every door, checked every window—twice.
Silence. Nothing.
2:07 a.m.
Her phone buzzed again.
A text. Same number.+++-
“Too late.”
Her blood froze.
Then—a knock.
Just one.
But it echoed like thunder.
She crept to the door and looked through the peephole.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Someone was standing there.
But it wasn’t a stranger.
It was… her.
Same face. Same hoodie. Same scar on the brow.
But this version of her was smiling. Too wide. Too still.
It raised a hand and waved slowly.
Then mouthed something:
“Let me in.”
Layla backed away.
Her phone slipped from her hand, hit the floor—and lit up one last time.
A new message:
“If you don’t… I will.”
ℬ𝓎 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓏𝒶 ℳℴ𝒽𝒶𝓂ℯ𝒹
And that’s the tale for today... until the next spark of wonder.
Because stories don’t just end — they rest, waiting for someone to dream them awake again. See you in the next chapter.
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