The screen flickered, not to a movie or a song, but to a grainy video feed of her own living room—from a camera angle she didn't recognize. The timestamp read: Tomorrow, 8:14 PM .
The download completed. The screen went black. And behind her, the rocking chair began to move.
Her breath caught as she reached for the floorboard again. Beneath it, wrapped in oilcloth, was a single key. Not for her door—for a small locker at the town’s bus station. And a faded note in her grandmother’s handwriting:
A soft creak came from the hallway.
That night, she didn't sleep. Instead, she watched the file finish downloading at exactly 8:14 PM. Not tomorrow. Tonight .
