Chapter 3: Knocks in the Dark

There was no way I could sleep, so I rolled out of bed and hurried to the entryway.

The chill of the marble floor sent a shiver up my spine. I grabbed the nearest dupatta from the back of the chair, quickly smoothing my hair—no way was I opening the door looking like a total mess, even if it was the middle of the night.

Because of a fire escape bend outside my door, the peephole can’t see anyone else’s door.

I cursed the building’s weird architecture. Who designs these places anyway? The fire exit twisted right after my door, blocking my view, making me feel even more alone.

I didn’t open the door, just pressed my ear to it to listen.

I pressed my ear to the cool wood, the scent of old varnish filling my nose. Outside, the corridor was filled with that thick silence, broken only by the distant whirring of the water pump downstairs. I strained to catch any whisper, any footstep.

I heard a door close—must have been 402 coming out.

The soft click echoed faintly. My heart pounded as I pictured him tiptoeing down the corridor, pausing at 404, knocking just loud enough to be polite but not to wake the whole building.

He was polite, didn’t even ring 404’s doorbell, just knocked lightly.

That gentle tap was the way most of us did things here—a kind of unspoken agreement to mind each other’s space, but also to intervene if needed. Nobody wanted to cause a scene.

Then, something strange happened:

There was no conversation between them at all.

No muffled voices, no soft greetings, no “Kaise ho?”—nothing. In an Indian building, even a brief visit usually means at least a whispered exchange, but here, only silence pressed in.

I couldn’t hear 404’s door open, but I heard it close, clear as day.

The thud was unmistakable. A door being pulled shut with just enough force to make sure it stayed closed, but not enough to attract attention.

I couldn’t figure it out.

My mind whirled with possibilities—did they just whisper? Did 402 get inside? Why didn’t I hear any words? The silence was suddenly much more terrifying than any argument or shout.

That’s it?

A brief flicker of doubt: was I imagining things? Did I miss something? My own breathing seemed too loud, masking the softer sounds outside.

Were they just talking too softly, or was there some other reason?

I started to doubt myself, wondered if I should step out and pretend to go for water, just to check. But my legs felt glued to the spot.