Work - Serialghar

No one knew who The Watcher was. But every tenant felt it. At 2:17 AM, a sliver of light would appear under the door of every flat, originating from the locked, windowless storeroom on the second-floor landing. It was not a bulb. It was a glow, amber and slow, like a dying ember. And with it came a sound: a soft, rhythmic click, like a camera shutter.

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