The Last Notification

At exactly 2:17 a.m., his phone vibrated. He looked at the screen.
Don't open the door.

He stared at the message. The sender was his own number. Before he could think of an explanation, three knocks came from the front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.

He didn't move. He already knew nobody would be there. He walked to the door anyway and looked through the peephole. The corridor was empty.

When he returned to the sofa, another notification was waiting.
You already checked.

His stomach tightened. Something about the sentence felt familiar.
Not the words.
The moment.

The room suddenly seemed different. The same lamp. The same glass of water. The same crack in the wall beside the television.
He had seen this before.

He opened his phone and searched his messages. There were dozens of them. All from his own number. All sent at 2:17 a.m.
Don't open the door.
Don't open the door.
Don't open the door.

His hands began to shake. He couldn't remember sending any of them. Then he noticed something else.

The messages weren't from tonight. Some were weeks old. Some were months old.

The oldest one was dated three years ago.

He stopped scrolling.
Three years ago.

That was the night his brother died.

He looked toward the front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, he didn't feel afraid. He felt tired.

Because suddenly, he remembered.

He remembered standing beside that door three years ago. He remembered the phone. He remembered the message.

He remembered opening the door.

And then everything went dark.

His phone vibrated.
Don't open the door.

He looked at the time.
2:17 a.m.

He closed his eyes. He knew what would happen next.

Three knocks. The door. The darkness.

And then—

He opened his eyes.

He was sitting on the sofa. The lamp was on. The glass of water was beside him. The crack was on the wall.

His phone was in his hand.
2:17 a.m.

It vibrated.
Don't open the door.