ious hour was escalating. She stood frozen, the bedside lamp clutched in her hand, its beam a weak defense against the unseen. The scratching had sto

nd of laughter – a child's laughter, high and carefree. It was a memory, she knew, but one shrouded in a hazy fog, disconnected from any clea

as it the oppressive silence after the sounds? The lingering fear? She tried to grasp at the fr

her familiar furniture, the pale moonlight through the window, and the lingering sense of dread. Had she imagine

o sign of entry, no disturbed dust, nothing to explain the tangible presence she had felt.

n flight. It wasn't hers. She had never seen it before. A new wave of unease washed over her. This

– and the same carved bird was in her hand. She remembered the feel of the smooth wood, the intricate details of the feathers. And then, a sharp word, a raised voice, and the bi

hour wasn't just a nightly torment; it felt connected to something buried deep within her own history. The scratching, the whisper, the carved bird – th

the Past (

rch swing. A flicker of recognition sparked within Maya, a sense that this small object held a significance she couldn't

ll to see. Squinting, she made out a single letter: 'L'. The letter resonated with a faint whisper in her m

ng boat, the laughter, the porch swing, the snatched bird, the sharp word – they coalesced into a confusing jumble, each carrying a distinct emotional

drumbeat against the sudden onslaught of buried feelings. This wasn't just about a nightly haunting anymore. This was about her.

ched, but a sharp, almost painful pang of guilt. It was a foreign emotion, unwelcome and confusing. What had

ling realization dawned: the terror of the night might not be an external force at all. Perhaps the ghost that haunted three AM was her own buried past, finally stirr