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3:14 AM in Georgia

 The floorboards in that old rental outside of Savannah didn’t just creak—they sighed, like they were tired of holding up the weight of the humid Georgia air.



I’d moved in for the cheap rent and the Spanish moss dripping off the oaks, but the kitchen always felt five degrees colder than the rest of the house. Every night at 3:14 AM, the smell of burnt toast and expensive lavender perfume would drift through the hallway. It wasn't a scary smell; it was the scent of a rushed morning from fifty years ago.

One Tuesday, I woke up to find my car keys, which I’d definitely left on the counter, sitting right by the front door on a lace doily I didn't even own. Beside them was a small, hand-pinched lump of sugar, the kind you’d put in a teacup.

I didn't run. I just sat there in the quiet, morning light and whispered a soft "thank you" to the empty hallway. For the first time in months, living alone didn't feel quite so lonely. Whatever was lingering in the corners of that house wasn't looking for blood—it was just looking for someone to look after.

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