3:15 AM

Just a few more minutes to go.This time, I would catch the perpetrator.

They had managed to escape me every night for the past week—always slipping away, even when I’d been inches from grabbing them.

But not tonight. Tonight would be different.

The clock on the microwave blinked 3:13 AM. The house was silent, save for the refrigerator’s low hum and the occasional creak of settling wood.

I sat in the dark, hidden from the windows, barely breathing—though I wasn’t sure when I’d last needed to. My chest rose and fell, but the motion felt automatic, distant. Like a habit my body hadn't yet forgotten.

It was the ninth night in a row—at least, I thought it was. Time had begun to blur, one long, silent vigil bleeding into the next. Still, every night, precisely at 3:15 AM, the doorbell rang. No footsteps. No shadows. No figure fleeing into the night. Just the echo of the bell.

Outside, the air would be sharply cold—the kind that stung your lungs when you breathed it in. The sky would be starless, low clouds sagging over the neighborhood like a wet blanket. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then went quiet. The streetlights buzzed faintly, casting a sickly yellow glow across the driveway. One of them flickered every few seconds, washing the front lawn in uneven light.

No wind tonight. No crickets either. Just the dense, pressing stillness of 3:14 AM.

Who—or what—it was, I still couldn’t say. They always managed to vanish. But how? How did they disappear so quickly, right under my nose? Or maybe the better question was why? Why would anyone ring someone’s doorbell at 3:15 in the morning—every single night for a week?

At first, I’d dismissed it as some neighborhood kid pulling a prank. But it was far too late for that. No child should’ve been out at that hour, let alone night after night. And if it was a prank, it was one with disturbingly perfect timing.

The waiting dragged on, time stretching unnaturally thin. My limbs felt heavy, but the exhaustion didn’t settle the way it used to. It was as if I was remembering what tired felt like, not truly feeling it. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten—or if I’d even been hungry.

Nausea stirred in my gut, and a dull ache throbbed behind my eyes, but even pain felt muted, like I was remembering it instead of feeling it. My body didn’t feel like it used to. Didn’t feel like mine.

But I wasn’t giving up. Not tonight. I would catch them, whatever it took.

And when I did, I’d beat the living shit out of whoever thought this was funny.

I glanced up at the clock—just a few more seconds.

I could feel it. A presence at the door.

And then I smelled something unfamiliar—freshly turned soil and a floral scent I couldn’t name.

I stood, every hair on my body rising. My skin crawled. An instinctual growl rumbled from deep in my chest. I was ready to pounce.

Ding dong.

The bell sounded louder than usual—unnaturally loud. Ominous.

I sprang forward, but before I could reach the front hallway, the door creaked open on its own.

Slowly.

A cool draft slipped in, carrying a soft, sweet scent—like vanilla mingled with damp earth. The smell of turned soil hit me with a strange intensity, more vivid than anything I’d noticed in days. It was almost too real, too crisp, like a dream sharpening just before waking.

I bounded through the threshold, hackles raised, claws out, teeth bared—

But what I saw stopped me cold.

The sky was ablaze with stars, and the soft, ethereal light of a sunset bathed the heavens in warm hues of pink, orange, and blue.

But that wasn’t all.

The entire neighborhood—streets, sidewalks, lawns—was blanketed in rows upon rows of red spider lilies.

Speechless, I stepped forward. A rustle beneath my paw made my whiskers twitch. I glanced down and stepped back. A slip of paper lay at my feet.

It held only a single line, scrawled in delicate cursive:

“It is time.”

Bewildered, I looked up—

And there, standing on a narrow path of firelit stone, was another black cat.

It stared straight at me with glowing white eyes. A faint halo shimmered around its large, unfamiliar frame.

But even stranger than the cat was everything else:

The neighborhood had vanished.

Now, there was only the spider lilies—stretching endlessly to the horizon. The path ahead was lit not by lamp posts, but by flickering clusters of fireflies.

The black cat stood still, waiting. Watching.

And somehow, deep inside, I knew—I was being summoned.

I stepped forward, slowly, reverently.

The cat raised one paw and gently touched the top of my head.

A rush of warmth spread through me—comforting, ancient. My heartbeat slowed. My breathing softened.

Then the cat tilted its head, turned, and began to walk down the glowing path.

I followed.

Only once did I glance back toward the house I had once called home.

The front door remained ajar. And through the darkness, I saw it. Curled on the sofa where I’d been just moments ago was a small black cat—me. Or the me I used to be. Still, unmoving, asleep… or something else entirely.

Understanding dawned. I let out a soft laugh.

Then the door closed behind me.

Something in me shifted—like a tether snapping loose. I felt lighter, unburdened. Not like I was leaving home, but like I’d already left long ago and only now realized it.

I turned back, and the path shimmered ahead, glowing with firefly light. I followed, tail high, the scent of lilies sweet in the air, as stars lit the way home.

The sky darkened to a deep indigo, stars still blazing overhead, and together, we walked toward the glowing horizon.

It was time.

Epilogue

The key turned in the lock just after noon.

Soft voices drifted in ahead of them—laughter, then a sigh. Bags dropped by the door. The smell of takeout filled the air.

They hadn’t meant to stay away so long. Just one night at her sister’s place. A quick visit.

The heater hadn’t come on, though the thermostat read colder than it should have. The lights didn’t work. A breaker, maybe? Or a storm had knocked something out while they were gone.

She noticed it first—

The open front door.

Her husband followed her in, calling, “Midnight?”

The living room was still. The little black cat wasn’t there to wind between their legs or leap onto the armrest with that sharp, questioning meow.

On the couch, curled into a perfect crescent, Midnight looked like she was only sleeping. One paw tucked beneath her chin. Still. Peaceful.

They didn’t notice the faint smell of gas right away. The quiet. The stuffy air.

Later, the technician would say it was a faulty vent in the basement. A slow leak. Carbon monoxide. Odorless. Invisible. Deadly.

They should’ve installed a detector.

She sat down beside the cat, stroking the soft, cool fur. “She must’ve passed in her sleep,” she whispered, voice cracking. “All alone…”

The room was silent, heavy with grief. And the clock on the microwave blinked 3:15