The knocker struck the door three times on its own—a slow, deliberate rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“It found me again,” he said without turning around. “They always find me.”
“Well, boy,” he said, kneeling to my eye level. “Do you believe in things that cannot be explained?”
On the inside of my bedroom closet.
“Take care of this,” he whispered. “It’s the only thing keeping the late train on time.” That pocket watch became my obsession. Over the next week, Uncle Shom moved into our spare room—the one with the locked closet my mother never used. He kept strange hours. Awake at 3:00 AM, brewing black tea with a single sprig of rosemary. Asleep by noon, only to rise at sunset.
