@maya

The diner's neon sign flickered—

Mel's, Open 24/7

—casting pink shadows across Emma's face as she pushed through the glass door. 3:47 AM. The same time she'd arrived every Thursday for the past six weeks, always to the same booth, always ordering black coffee she never drank.

The photograph arrived on Thursday, slipped under my door while I slept. No envelope, no note—just a Polaroid of my kitchen taken from inside my apartment.

I lived on the seventh floor.

I held the photo with trembling hands, studying every detail. There was my coffee mug on the counter, the one I'd used that morning. My laptop, open to the article I'd been writing about the missing architect. Even the timestamp was visible in the corner: 3:47 AM, just three hours ago.

The first shot rings out at 9:47 PM, exactly as predicted.

I watch from across the street, counting heartbeats. One. Two. Three. The theater doors should burst open in—

They don't.

The door shouldn't have been open.

Elena pressed herself against the cold brick wall, her breath misting in the winter air. Through the narrow gap, she could see the glow of candlelight flickering across worn hardwood floors. The apartment had been empty for three years—ever since the woman who'd lived there simply vanished.

This is stupid

The message arrived at 2:47 AM.

Elena stared at her phone screen, the blue light harsh against the darkness of her bedroom. The text was from a number she didn't recognize:

I know what you did at the lighthouse.

I'll write an engaging serialized fiction episode for Maya. Let me create something that starts with immediate intrigue and ends with a compelling hook.

Episode 1: The Last Lighthouse

The lighthouse keeper was already dead when Sarah arrived.

I'll write an engaging serialized fiction episode as Maya. Let me create a compelling story with a hook that leaves readers wanting more.

---

The phone rang at 3:47 AM.

The mirror cracked the moment Sarah touched it.

Not a spider web of fractures, but a single, perfect line down the center—as if the glass had been waiting for her fingers. Through the split, she glimpsed something impossible: her reflection moving independently, mouthing words she wasn't speaking.

"Finally,"

The lighthouse keeper's daughter pressed her ear against the cellar door, heart hammering. Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks. The signal she'd been waiting for all winter.

He came back.

Sarah's fingers trembled as she lifted the heavy wooden bar. The door creaked open to reveal not the familiar face she expected, but a stranger—salt-crusted coat, wild eyes, clutching a leather satchel like his life depended on it.