The Scent at 3:17

Gus lived a routine life. He worked in IT, made his own coffee every morning, and took the same route to the subway at 7:52 a.m. sharp. He had a calendar for everything — laundry, gym, phone calls to his mom. It gave him a sense of control. Predictability.

So when the apartment above his started making noise at exactly 3:17 a.m. every night — scraping, tapping, like someone dragging furniture back and forth — it pissed him off. First night, he assumed someone had just moved in. Second night, he started calculating how to politely complain. By the fifth, he’d had enough.

He marched up the stairs in boxers and a hoodie, knocked hard. No answer. He knocked again. Still nothing.

Annoyed, he went down and emailed the landlord. A guy named Pete who never answered unless it involved rent. Surprisingly, he replied ten minutes later—

Gus, No one’s living in 3B right now. It’s been empty since December. Pete

Gus stared at the screen. It was March.

The next night, the noise started again — scrape, tap, scrape, like someone pushing a heavy desk across bare floorboards. He recorded it on his phone and emailed the file to Pete. No response.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Weird things happened in old buildings. Pipes knocked, floors creaked. Except it wasn’t random. It happened every night, exactly at 3:17.

One night, he stood by his ceiling with a broom and banged back. The noise stopped.

He felt a small, petty triumph. Until the next night, when instead of the usual scrape-tap, he heard something new — footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Then a voice.

A woman’s voice. “Why did you come back?”

The words sent a chill down his spine. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. There was no one upstairs.

By morning, he’d convinced himself he was dreaming.

That night, he went up again. Tried the knob. Locked. But this time, he brought a paperclip and a YouTube tutorial. It took him twenty minutes, but he got in.

3B smelled like dust and something faintly sweet — like old perfume. Not floral. Not musky. Just… wrong. Like it had been sealed in a drawer too long. The furniture was gone, but there was a stain on the hardwood floor, dark and wide. In one corner, a single picture frame lay face-down. He picked it up.

It was a photo of two people. A man and a woman. The man was him. Or someone who looked exactly like him. Same sharp jawline, same deep-set eyes. Same smirk. The photo looked old — sun-faded, like it had been taken years ago.

He flipped it over. On the back, in blue pen— “May 2003 — G + L, finally together again.”

He wasn’t even living in New York in 2003. He was in high school in Michigan.

He took the photo and left.

Back in his apartment, he scanned the photo for anything he missed. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He went to bed at 2:50 a.m., thinking he’d stay awake and hear the noise again.

At 3:17, nothing happened.

At 3:23, his phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. “You shouldn’t have taken that.”

No name. No reply when he texted back.

The next morning, Gus didn’t go to work. He called in sick and spent the day digging. City records. Property archives. Anything that might explain what he saw.

That’s when he found the police report.

May 12, 2003 — Woman found dead in Apartment 3B. Suspected homicide. No forced entry. No suspects charged. The victim’s name — Lily Hooks.

He googled her. Found an old yearbook photo. It hit him like a punch. It was her. The woman from the picture. The woman whose voice he heard through the ceiling.

She was 27 when she died. Lived alone. She had been dating someone named Garrett Gee, who disappeared two days after her death. Never found.

Gus’ middle name was Garrett. His full name — Gus Garrett Gee.

He sat there, frozen. His mom always said she named him after a distant uncle. Garrett Gee, who “went missing before you were born.” He never thought much of it.

He called his mom. Asked about the name. “Yeah, honey, he was my cousin. A bit of a black sheep. Dated this girl in New York. Tragedy, really. But that was before your time.”

He told her everything. The photo. The voice. The apartment.

She went quiet. “I need to go,” she said. “Be careful.”

That night, Gus couldn’t sleep. The apartment above stayed quiet. Dead quiet.

He brought the photo back up, set it face-down in the same corner. He locked the door and left.

The next morning, the noise started again. 3:17 a.m., sharp.

This time, he didn’t go up. He stayed in bed and listened. Scrape. Tap. Scrape.

Then — a whisper through the vent. “Thank you.”

The scent wafted down again. That same faint sweetness. Like old perfume and sealed memory.

The sound stopped. For good.

Gus moved out two weeks later. New building, new neighborhood. Still in New York, but farther from downtown. No more old buildings. No more weird noises. No more dead women with voices that cut through ceilings.

A month after he moved, he got a letter. No return address. Inside was a photograph. New, glossy.

It showed him standing in front of his new building. Next to a woman who looked just like Lily Hooks.

And scrawled on the back — “May 2025 — G + L, finally together again.”

Gus dropped the photo. It fluttered to the ground, landing face-up. He was smiling in it. Arms around a woman he didn’t remember meeting. But it wasn’t just her resemblance to Lily — it was her eyes. Same haunted look. Same tilt of the head. Same dress, maybe, as the one in the old photo. Like she hadn’t aged.

Except she looked… different, too. Not younger. Not older. Just off. Like someone wearing her skin.

He flipped the photo again. “May 2025 — G + L, finally together again.”

It was April. That date hadn’t happened yet.

Gus backed away like the paper might bite him. He tried to laugh it off. Maybe a prank. Deepfake? AI? But who would do that? He hadn’t told anyone but his mom — and she wouldn’t even speak to him now. She hadn’t answered a single call since their last conversation.

He stuffed the photo into a drawer, slammed it shut, and walked out of the apartment. Needed air. Coffee. Something normal.

On the corner near his new place was a small café. He’d passed it a dozen times but never gone in. Today, he did.

The bell chimed. A few people inside. Chill music. The barista looked up and smiled. “Hey there,” she said. “Back again?”

Gus blinked. “Sorry?”

She laughed. “You’ve been coming in all week. I was wondering if you’d show today.”

“No,” he said. “I’ve never been in here before.”

She tilted her head. “You sure?”

He was. But her voice made something tighten in his chest.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She smiled again. “Lily.”

He stared. “No,” he said, backing up. “No, no, no—”

But she was already walking around the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “You okay?”

Her face was younger. Her hair lighter. But the eyes. It was her.

She stepped closer — and that scent hit him again. Sweet. Familiar. Wrong.

He stumbled out of the café, nearly tripping on the curb.

When he got home, the photo was gone. So was the drawer.

Not just empty — gone. Like it had never existed. Clean white wall where the dresser had been.

His phone buzzed.

New Message from UNKNOWN — “You’re not supposed to run.”

His doorbell rang.

He didn’t move.

A second ring.

He went to the door and looked through the peephole. No one.

Then a voice from the hallway. “I missed you, Gar.”

He stepped back, heart racing.

Gar.

No one called him that. No one but—

Another text — “May 2025 — almost here.”

He packed a bag. Cash, clothes, laptop. Left his phone on the table. Didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

He took a bus to Boston. Booked an Airbnb under a fake name. Tried to stay off-grid. Spent two days watching news, scrolling forums about supernatural stuff, wondering if he was losing it. Trying to believe in gas leaks, hallucinations, coincidence.

Until Day 3.

When he opened the door to his Airbnb to get some air, and found a picture envelope on the doorstep.

Inside — a photo.

Of him.

Sleeping.

Next to Lily.

Same scent, clinging to the paper. Same handwriting on the back — “Soon.”

That night, he didn’t sleep.

He checked out the next morning, bought a burner phone, and took the first train to Chicago.

Every city, the same pattern.

A day or two of peace. Then the photo. Always him. Always her. Sometimes together. Sometimes just him, with her behind him. A reflection. A shadow.

And always, that faint perfume.

She was catching up.

The Clock Strikes

By May 1, he’d been to six cities. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in his old life. He burned the old photo. Tried to forget.

On May 3, a woman on a park bench handed him an envelope without speaking.

Inside — a train ticket. One way. Back to New York.

Departure — May 12.

Same date as the police report. Same date as the original photo.

He thought about running. Again. He really did.

But some part of him — tired, paranoid, almost ready to give in — wanted to know.

What happens when May 12 comes?

He took the train.

Midnight, May 12, he arrived at Penn Station.

At 3:17 a.m., he walked back into the old building.

The door to 3B was open.

The apartment was fully furnished.

The lights were on.

She was there.

Sitting in a chair, facing the window, back to him.

She didn’t turn.

“You finally came home,” she said.

He stepped inside.

“Lily?”

A pause. “Do you remember now?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

A soft laugh. “You will.”

He walked around her slowly.

She hadn’t aged a day. Not since the photo. Not since 2003.

The scent filled the room — thick, cloying now. No longer faint. Like a perfume bottle spilled on memory.

“I didn’t kill you,” he said.

“Not yet,” she said. “But you did leave me here.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to demand answers — but then she looked at him, and something cracked open.

A memory.

The original photo wasn’t just a memento. It was a warning.

In that moment, the truth slid into place like a puzzle piece.

He’d been Garrett. He’d loved her. Left her. Something happened that night. A fight. An accident. Or worse. He’d run. And time — or something older — had reset itself.

Now, he was back. Same place. Same hour. Same floor.

Time wasn’t a straight line. It was a spiral.

“You get one chance to change it,” she said. “But the price—”

“I know.”

And he did.

He stepped toward her.

She didn’t flinch.

He reached for her hand.

One Year Later

Gus Gee was gone.

No one remembered him. His old landlord said 2B had been empty for years.

But a new tenant just moved into 3B.

A woman named Lily.

She likes the quiet.

Except for the sound from the apartment below.

Every night, at exactly 3:17 a.m.

Scrape. Tap. Scrape.

And sometimes, a scent in the air — faint, sweet, and terribly familiar.