2:17 A.M. – The Room with No One Inside

An stood in front of the boarding house as dusk settled in. The rain had just stopped, leaving puddles scattered along the narrow alley. Streetlights reflected off the wet ground, stretching into warped streaks of light. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the smell of old cement mixed with rainwater—enough to make breathing feel uncomfortable, though not quite suffocating. The house number sign hung crookedly by the entrance: 17/3. The white paint had peeled badly, and the number “3” was noticeably more faded, as if someone had deliberately rubbed at it over and over. An stared at it for a moment, then lowered her gaze, dragged her suitcase forward, and stepped through the low iron gate. The building had only two floors. The corridor was narrow and long, with fluorescent lights placed too far apart, leaving unnecessary pockets of darkness between them. The sound of the suitcase wheels scraping over the tiled floor echoed dryly, lingering longer than it should have. It made An feel as though someone was walking behind her, half a step slower. When she turned around, the corridor was empty—only pale yellow light and streaks of rainwater that hadn’t yet dried. The landlord was waiting at the far end of the corridor. He was thin, slightly hunched, wearing an old, yellowed shirt. A key ring hung from his hand; the metal clinked softly before sinking back into silence. “Upstairs,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “Room 203.” An nodded. The rent was suspiciously cheap, but she didn’t have the energy to question it. She just needed a temporary place—somewhere quiet, far from whatever she had left behind. The concrete stairs dipped in the middle, the iron handrail cold and damp to the touch. On the second floor, the silence became more pronounced. No televisions. No conversations. Not even the hum of an electric fan. The entire corridor felt as though it was holding its breath. The landlord stopped in front of room 203, unlocked the door, then stepped back. “Here,” he said. “If there’s anything, talk to me during the day.” An looked up. “What about at night?” The man tightened his grip on the keys, remained silent for a few seconds, then replied, “At night, just sleep.” He turned and walked away immediately, his footsteps so light An couldn’t hear them echo. The door to room 203 was painted a dark brown. The room number was written in white paint, slightly crooked. Just beneath the doorknob was a long scratch, like a fingernail had dug in hard and dragged downward. An took a breath and pushed the door open. The room was small—just enough space for a single bed, a desk pressed against the window, and an old wardrobe. Everything was unnaturally clean, as if it had been thoroughly scrubbed to erase someone’s traces. The air inside was cooler than outside, but not in a comforting way. It was a faint, unsettling chill that raised goosebumps on her skin. An set her suitcase down and stood still for a moment. The first feeling wasn’t fear, but wrongness. She couldn’t say exactly what was wrong—only that the silence in this room was too perfect, so perfect it demanded attention. She pulled back the curtain. Outside was nothing but the gray wall of the neighboring building, so close she could almost touch it if she reached out. No sky. No scenery. Just a flat, lifeless slab of gray. “It’s fine,” An murmured, trying to reassure herself. “It’s just a room.” She unpacked quickly. When she placed her laptop on the desk, she noticed a dark circular stain around the power outlet—evidence of frequent use. The small detail made her frown, but she dismissed it as her imagination running wild. An sat down on the bed. The mattress sank deeper than she expected, as if some extra weight had just lifted away. The thought made her jump to her feet, heart pounding. The room remained silent, unchanged. She let out a soft laugh that sounded strained even to her own ears. Night fell quickly. An turned off the light, leaving only the dim glow from the corridor seeping through the crack under the door. She lay on her side, facing the door, unsure why she didn’t want to turn her back to it. Sleep came slowly and heavily. She dreamed she was standing in the second-floor corridor. All the lights were off except for a single door at the far end, glowing faintly. She walked toward it, but the corridor kept stretching endlessly. When she realized it was room 203, her heart began to race. There was light inside. Someone was in there. She reached for the doorknob— An woke up. Her throat was dry and raw, her heart pounding violently. The wall clock read 2:17. There was no sound, yet An felt with chilling certainty that someone was standing outside her door. Not passing by. Not knocking. Just standing there, waiting. She stared at the crack beneath the door. The hallway light wasn’t blocked. If someone was there, they had to be pressed flat against the wall… or else lacked a shape solid enough to block the light. An picked up her phone, then put it down again. She stepped closer and touched the icy doorknob, which felt worn, as if it had been gripped countless times before. A thought flashed through her mind, sharp enough to make her recoil: a plea for help. She backed away, slid down against the wall, and sat on the floor, eyes never leaving the door. The presence outside didn’t vanish—it only faded, like something that had waited too long and decided to give up, for now. The next morning, An woke with a stiff neck and aching back. Weak sunlight filtered into the room, revealing a faint scratch near the door, angled from outside toward the inside. Across the hall, room 204 was tightly shut, its door noticeably newer. When she went downstairs, the landlord asked quietly, “Did you sleep well last night?” “More or less,” An replied. He nodded, as if he already knew the answer. That evening, when An returned, the second-floor corridor was darker than usual. The door to room 203 was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and a wave of cold air rushed toward her. Everything looked the same—except the chair at the desk had been pulled out a little, as if someone had been sitting there. An turned to the wall clock. The minute hand crept forward, the hour hand dragged heavily, and the second hand jerked—then stopped. 2:17. Knock. A very soft knock echoed. Not from her door. But from the room next door.