The Call

You hear it in the wrong place. Not in a temple or a wood — in the kitchen at some hour that has no business existing, holding a glass of water you do not remember pouring. A sound like a shop bell, three streets over, underwater.

You have heard it before. Once at a bus stop. Once when you were eleven and everyone had gone home and the board was still out on the table with the pieces where you had left them.

The hallway is one door longer than it was.