Some knocks remind.
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Avi wasn’t like others–he loved the late shift because it was– Quiet.
Serene.
Because he could work alone.
Moments of solace in his apartment were a treasure–rare and city-free.
But something spoiled them one night.
A knock.
Deliberate.
Purposeful.
It didn’t belong to the hour.
He peeped through the keyhole with a light stamp of his foot– No one.
Silence.
It then fractured–measured, urgent beats.
Each more demanding than the next, shifting from the door–
To a cabinet in his living room.
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Avi took a few hesitant footsteps towards the cabinet–he couldn’t get the knock out of his head.
The door was locked.
But shuddered.
With each knock.
Then, shadows.
Lengthening across walls.
The family photo on the living room cabinet.
The knocks persisted
Like an alarm that couldn’t turn off.
The floor creaked.
In sync with the knocks.
The same, persistent reminder
The family photo on the cabinet glowed.
Curiosity overcame fright—he flung the door open.
A package. To a familiar address.
Too familiar.
In it, a brass key.
Warm to the touch.
And a note—a memo.
“You forgot.”
Then the knocks increased–
On the windows.
And the walls.
The ceiling.
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The brass key in his hand–
Hotter.
Heavier.
The elevator door creaked open.
Empty.
But the knocks grew louder–inside.
He stepped in—it descended.
Without him pushing a button.
Reopening–on a dimly lit floor.
The knocks softened–but became more
insistent, pulling him–
To a door.
With a number he knew–
But couldn’t quite place.
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He approached the numbered door.
He knew it—needed to open it.
He raised the key to open it–the knocks stopped.
The door clicked open—almost unwillingly.
A room.
Smelling of antiseptic.
A corridor.
Of a hospice.
The family photo–now flashing insistently
in his head.
The number—to his parents room.
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He stood outside his parents’ room, fighting with his mind.
With the brass key.
The photo.
The KNOCKS.
And the responsibility–he forgot.
He placed his hand on the knob–he didn’t dare turn it.
After a few minutes–
The door opened fully.
The knocks softened–but not completely.
They now counted–like time.
Until he moved.
🔑🗝️🔐🔑🗝️🔐🔑🗝️🔐🔑🗝️🔐🔑🗝️🔐🔑🗝️🔐If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 