The first thing Kelvin Katz learned about silence was that it could hurt more than shouting. Every morning at exactly 6:15, his alarm buzzed once before he reached over and switched it off. He never let it ring twice. If it did, someone downstairs would complain. He sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, staring at the faded baseball poster hanging above his desk. It had been there since he was nine. His father had put it up one Saturday afternoon after promising they would go to a Rockies game together. They never did. Three weeks later, his father died in a highway accident. Eight years had passed since then. Sometimes Kelvin could still remember the sound of his father's laugh. Other times, all he could remember was the funeral. He rubbed his face and stood. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. "So much for being quiet," he muttered. His bedroom was the smallest room in the house, tucked away beside the attic. The walls were bare except for the old post

The knocking came again. Three slow knocks. Not loud. Not violent. Confident. As though whoever stood outside already knew the door would eventually open. No one in the kitchen moved. Rain battered the windows while the broken lightbulbs continued to crackle on the floor. Kelvin could hear Emma crying upstairs. Liam called out again. "Mom?" Sarah shut her eyes for one brief second. When she opened them, the fear in her face had become determination. She looked directly at Kelvin. "Go upstairs." "What?" "Now." "I'm not leaving you." "Kelvin." Her voice was firmer this time. "Take Emma and Liam into your room. Lock the door." Mark finally found his voice. "Sarah, what's going on?" She ignored him. Another knock. Exactly three. The calm voice outside spoke again. "Mrs. Sarah Katz." "We're not here to hurt anyone." "We only wish to speak." Mark walked toward the front door. "This is ridiculous." Sarah grabbed his arm before h