It Only Comes When the Lights Go Out
The digital clock on Elias’s nightstand flickered with a cold, rhythmic pulse. 3:16 AM.
In the silence of his studio apartment, the sound of his own breathing felt like an intrusion. For three weeks, Elias had lived by a singular, desperate rule: the darkness was the enemy. He had every light in the house turned on—the overhead fluorescent, two desk lamps, a camping lantern, and even the small light inside the microwave. The apartment was a blinding, buzzing sanctuary of artificial amber.
