Every night, at exactly 3:17 a.m., the old clock in the attic would tick with an unnatural rhythm. It was a grandfather clock, its face cracked and its hands frozen, yet it still ticked—slowly, deliberately, as if counting down to something. No one in the house had ever heard it before, not even the previous owners who had lived there for decades. But when the new tenant, Elara, moved in, she found it in the dusty corner of the attic, untouched by time. She didn’t think much of it at first. The house was old, and strange things happened in old houses. But soon, she began to notice small changes. Her reflection in the mirror would flicker for a moment, like static on a TV. Her coffee would cool faster than it should. And every night at 3:17 a.m., the clock would start ticking again, though no one else could hear it. One evening, Elara decided to investigate. She climbed into the attic, her flashlight cutting through the darkness. The air was thick with dust and the scent of mildew. As she approached the clock, she noticed that the hands had begun to move, slowly rotating forward. Then, without warning, the room around her seemed to blur, as if reality itself had been dipped in water. When the world settled, she was no longer in the attic. The ceiling was gone, replaced by a sky filled with twin moons, their light casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. The walls were made of a smooth, black stone that pulsed faintly, as if breathing. The air was colder here, and the silence was oppressive. Elara took a step forward and found herself standing in a hallway that stretched endlessly in both directions. The doors along the walls were all identical, each with a small, silver keyhole. She reached out to touch one, but as her fingers brushed the surface, the door swung open on its own. Inside, the room was exactly like her bedroom back home, except everything was reversed. The bed was on the opposite wall, the desk mirrored, and the clock on the wall showed the same time—3:17 a.m. She stepped inside, heart pounding. The room felt familiar, yet wrong. The furniture was too clean, the air too still. Then she saw her own reflection in the mirror, but the person staring back at her was different. Their eyes were hollow, their mouth curled into a smile that never reached their eyes. Before she could react, the door slammed shut behind her. The mirror shattered, and the room dissolved into darkness. Elara awoke in the attic, gasping for breath. The clock had stopped, its hands frozen once more. She looked around, disoriented, and realized she had been holding a small, silver key in her hand. It was warm, as if it had just been used. Over the next few weeks, Elara began to explore the strange phenomenon. Each night at 3:17 a.m., the clock would tick, and she would slip into another version of her life. In one world, she was a famous painter, her works displayed in galleries across the city. In another, she was a child playing in a garden that never ended. Each world was slightly different, yet eerily similar to the one she left behind. But with each visit, the differences grew more unsettling. In one version, she found herself alone, the rest of the world erased. In another, she met a version of herself who had never moved into the house, who looked at her with fear and recognition. One night, she found a door that was different from the others. Its keyhole was larger, and the handle was cold to the touch. When she inserted the key, the door opened to a room that was completely empty. No walls, no floor, only a vast, endless void. In the distance, she saw other versions of herself, floating in the darkness, each one reaching out, calling her name. She tried to step forward, but the ground beneath her vanished. She fell, tumbling through the void, until she landed back in the attic, the clock now broken, its gears scattered across the floor. The next morning, the house was empty. No sign of the previous owner, no trace of the clock. Only the key remained in her hand, still warm. And every night, at exactly 3:17 a.m., the silence in the house deepened. Something was waiting. Something watching. And somewhere, in the endless corridors of parallel worlds, Elara’s voice echoed, unanswered.