Death Never Knocks Twice

Death knocked on our door long after the sun had given up trying to warm the world. The light outside was thin and gray, stretched like tired skin across the sky. The knock was slow. Heavy. Certain. Not the sound of someone hoping to be welcomed, but of someone who knew they would be answered eventually. The house reacted before we did. The floor creaked like it was remembering older footsteps. The air turned cold in places where no windows were open. Even the clock hesitated, its ticking uneven, as if time itself was unsure whether to keep moving forward.