The inheritance letter included one condition he couldn’t legally refuse. He had to spend one night in the house. No exceptions. No early departure. Midnight to sunrise. The lawyer had been very clear about that. “It’s just a formality,” she said. “Your grandfather insisted.” Of course he had. The house looked smaller than he remembered. Shrunk by time. Or maybe by memory. Inside, nothing had changed. Same wallpaper. Same creaking floorboards. Same smell of dust and something faintly sweet. His childhood bedroom waited upstairs. He didn’t want to go in. So he did. The bed was made. The desk was clean. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. 11:58 p.m. He sat. 11:59. Midnight. The lights flickered. The clock reset. 11:58. He stood up. “No,” he whispered. 11:59. Midnight. Again. Something shifted behind him. A boy sat on the bed. Small. Thin. Watching him. Him. “You stayed,” the boy said. “I… what is this?” “You weren’t supposed to leave last time,” the boy replied. “I never—” The boy tilted his head. “You don’t remember?” The clock ticked louder. 11:58. The man staggered back. “How many times has this happened?” The boy smiled faintly. “You always ask that.” “And you never answer?” The boy shook his head. “Because you always forget.” The room darkened. The clock struck midnight again. And again. And again. Morning came eventually. Or something like it. The lawyer didn’t seem surprised when he signed the papers. “Everything in order?” she asked. He hesitated. Something about the house felt… unfinished. But the feeling slipped away. “Yes,” he said. “Good,” she replied. “Then the property is officially yours.” He nodded. He didn’t remember going home. Didn’t remember unlocking the door. Didn’t remember walking upstairs. And that’s how he ended up back in his childhood bedroom, holding a receipt dated next year.