The Knock at 3 A.M.

The first night, I thought I dreamed it: three slow knocks at exactly 3:00 a.m. Knock. Knock. Knock. Evenly spaced, unhurried, like someone who knew I’d be home.

I lay there with my heart going and didn’t move. Nothing else happened. In the morning I told myself it was the pipes.

The second night I was awake — I’d been watching the clock, honestly, waiting to be silly about it. At 3:00, the knocks came again. I got up, crept to the door, and looked through the peephole.

The hallway was empty. The light at the end flickered the way it always does. No footsteps on the stairs. No door closing anywhere.

The third night I put a chair under the handle and slept with the lights on.

On the fourth night, I sat on the floor right next to the door, phone in hand, 911 already typed in. At 2:59 I heard something. Not footsteps.

Breathing. Slow and shallow, right on the other side of the wood.

Then: knock. Knock. Knock.

I yanked the door open before I could change my mind.

Nobody was standing there. I looked down.

Sitting against the wall opposite my door, in a dressing gown and one slipper, was Mrs. Adler from 4C. She’s eighty-something. I’d said hello to her maybe twice. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at my door number.

“Is Tom home?” she said. “He said three o’clock.”

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. I knelt down. “Mrs. Adler, it’s — I’m Sara. I live here. There’s no Tom.”

“This is 4A,” she said, very patiently, like I was the confused one. “Tom lives in 4A. We’re going to the lake.”

I got her a blanket and sat with her in the hallway until the building manager came. He knew more than I did. Her husband, Tom, had lived in 4A — my apartment — fifty-two years ago, when the building was new. They’d met in that hallway. He used to knock three times at three in the morning before their early fishing trips, so he wouldn’t wake her parents next door.

He died in 1991. Her daughter lives two states away and had no idea how bad things had gotten.

They found her a good place, with nurses and a garden. Her daughter flew in and thanked me so many times I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

I visit Mrs. Adler on Sundays now. Most weeks she thinks I’m a nurse. Once, she looked at me very clearly and said, “You opened the door.” Then she was gone again.

I still wake up at 3 a.m. sometimes. The hallway is quiet. And honestly, I’m a little sad that it is.