The letter arrived without a return address, but she knew exactly who had sent it. There was no mistaking her mother’s handwriting. Which would have been comforting, if her mother hadn’t died three months ago. Lina stood in the kitchen, staring at the envelope as if it might dissolve under scrutiny. The kettle shrieked behind her, forgotten. “This isn’t funny,” she said aloud, though no one was there to hear it. She opened it anyway. Inside: You didn’t listen. Her breath caught. The words dragged something up from memory—hospital lights, machines humming, her mother’s voice thin but insistent. Don’t leave the lights off. Lina had dismissed it then. Medication, confusion, fear. She’d held her hand and promised nonsense things just to keep her calm. The lights off. Such a small, strange request. The power flickered. The kitchen light dimmed. Lina froze. “Okay,” she said, forcing steadiness. “Okay. Coincidence.” She reached for the switch. Before she could touch it, the bulb flared back to full brightness. The letter shifted in her hand. New words pressed into the paper. You turned them off after I told you not to. Her pulse thundered. “I didn’t—” she started, then stopped. Because she had. Every night since the funeral, she’d turned off every light before bed. The house felt too big, too empty otherwise. Darkness made it easier. Didn’t it? The hallway light snapped off. She spun toward it. “Hello?” Nothing. Just the long stretch of shadow leading to the bedrooms. The letter warmed in her hand. It notices when it’s dark. A soft sound came from the hallway. Not footsteps. Something slower. Dragging. Lina swallowed. “Mom?” she whispered. The lights flickered again. One by one, bulbs began to fail. The hallway light went out completely. Then the living room. Then the one above her. She stumbled toward the breaker, heart racing, hands shaking. “Okay, okay, okay—” The letter fell from her grip. When she picked it up again, the message had changed. Leave them on. The dragging sound was closer now. Right outside the kitchen. Lina didn’t hesitate this time. She flipped every switch she could reach. Light flooded the house again. The sound stopped. Just like that. Silence. Heavy, waiting silence. She stood there for a long time, breathing hard, listening. Nothing moved. Nothing spoke. But she didn’t turn anything off. Not that night. Not any night after. She left the light on, just in case someone - or something - was still reading.