Chapter 3: When Time Doesn’t Move
1303 Words
After 2:18, An couldn’t fall back asleep.
He lay on the bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling where the dim hallway light slipping through the gap under the door formed a long, motionless streak. The second hand on the clock had started moving again, but its motion didn’t feel normal. Each tick sounded slow and heavy, as if the clock were struggling to catch up with something that had slipped out of alignment.
An turned his head toward the wall separating Room 203 from Room 204. The surface was still—no more knocking, no vibrations—but the feeling that something was still on the other side hadn’t gone away. It was like knowing someone was standing behind you even when you couldn’t hear footsteps. No proof was needed—only the sensation.
He sat up, rubbed his face, and forced himself to think more rationally. Fatigue. Stress. A change in environment. All of it could cause the brain to create hallucinations. An had read about such phenomena, about how people fill empty spaces with their own fears. With that thought, he got up and turned on the room light.
White light flooded the space, pushing back the shadows. Room 203 looked so normal it almost betrayed what had just happened. Nothing was disturbed. No one sat on the chair. Nothing strange had appeared. If the clock hadn’t read 2:21, An might have believed he had just woken from a brief nightmare.
He checked the door. The lock was intact. The window was tightly shut. Everything was in its proper place. An exhaled, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. But when he turned back toward the desk, he noticed the chair had been pushed closer to the table than before.
An froze.
The chair hadn’t moved much—just a subtle change that could easily be overlooked. But An knew he had left it pulled out when he had slumped against the door earlier. He didn’t remember pushing it back in.
A chill crawled up his spine.
An pulled the chair out, sat down, and opened his laptop. The glow of the screen made the room feel more real. He opened a browser and typed the name of the boarding house into the search bar, but nothing useful came up—only a few outdated rental ads. No reviews. No comments. No mentions.
He searched by address instead. This time, a few scattered results appeared, mostly expired listings from years ago. One post on an old forum caught his attention, but when he clicked it, the content had been deleted. Only a faded title remained:
“Boarding house near Alley 17 – has anyone stayed here?”
An stared at the line for a long moment, then closed the laptop.
Nothing concrete. No information solid enough to draw conclusions. Yet his unease didn’t fade. Instead, it spread, like a thin fog seeping into every thought.
He looked at the clock again. 3:04.
Time was moving normally again, but his mind was still stuck at 2:17. The number clung to his consciousness like a stain that wouldn’t wash away. An lay back down, closed his eyes, and tried to force himself to sleep a little more.
When he opened his eyes again, morning light was slipping through the curtain.
An sat up abruptly, heart racing, and instinctively checked the clock. 7:12. Everything seemed normal. The weak sunlight filled the room, enough to dissolve some of the heaviness from the night before. He got up and stepped outside, telling himself that daylight would put everything back into its proper order.
The second-floor corridor was brighter than the day before. Other doors opened. Footsteps echoed. Water ran from the shared bathroom at the end of the hall. Ordinary sounds made An feel lighter. He briefly met the eyes of another tenant—a middle-aged woman in the last room of the corridor. She nodded in greeting, her gaze sliding past him quickly, as if she didn’t want to look for long.
An went downstairs. The landlord sat at his usual table, a cup of tea in front of him. He looked up when An appeared.
“Did you sleep?” he asked.
An hesitated for a second. “More or less.”
The man nodded. “The first few days are always hard. Once you get used to it, it’s fine.”
An studied his face, searching for any sign of something off, but found nothing beyond a tired calm. He thought about asking about Room 204, but the words caught in his throat. Part of him feared that simply mentioning it would make the night before feel more real.
He left the boarding house with an unsettled, half-formed discomfort.
All day, An worked in a haze. Numbers drifted across his computer screen without registering. From time to time, he checked the clock, just to be sure time was still moving properly. Each time the minute hand advanced, he felt a small wave of relief—but it never lasted.
By late afternoon, An returned earlier than usual.
The second-floor corridor was quieter than in the morning. As he passed Room 204, he couldn’t help glancing at the door. It was tightly shut, the dusty knob untouched, showing no sign of recent use. If not for the vivid memory of the night before, An might have believed the room was truly empty.
He entered Room 203, locked the door, and leaned against the wall for a long moment. The room was silent, nothing out of place. He opened the window to let in some air, but the familiar musty smell lingered, its source unclear.
Dusk fell.
An ate a simple dinner, then sat on the bed reading to distract himself. The words blurred—not from fatigue, but because his thoughts kept circling a single sentence:
Time doesn’t move here.
He checked the clock. 1:58.
An set the book down. His heart began to race. Part of him wanted to leave—to walk out of the boarding house before night fully settled in. But another part, the part that had heard the knocking, held him in place, as if something unseen was waiting.
2:10.
Nothing happened.
2:14.
The air in the room seemed to grow colder.
2:16.
An sat up straight.
2:17.
The second hand stopped.
An held his breath. He listened, every nerve stretched tight. There was no knocking. No sound from the room next door. But this time, the presence wasn’t outside the door.
It was inside the room—so close An could feel the shift in the air.
“You’re here again,” a voice whispered, so softly it seemed to speak right beside his ear.
An spun around. The room was empty.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” the voice continued. “You just need to get used to it.”
“Used to what?” An asked, his voice trembling despite his effort to stay calm.
“Used to staying.”
An clenched his fists. “Staying for what?”
There was no immediate answer. The clock remained frozen at 2:17. The heaviness pressed down on An’s chest, making each breath harder.
“Not everyone can leave,” the voice finally said. “But anyone who’s heard it… will come back.”
The light in the room flickered. When it steadied again, the voice was gone. The clock made a soft tick.
2:18.
An remained seated for a long time afterward. He couldn’t be sure what he had heard—or whether he had only been talking to his own fear. But one truth formed clearly in his mind, cold and solid as stone:
This boarding house didn’t keep people with doors or locks.
It kept them with time.
- Writer
