Every night at 3:17 a.m

Every night at 3:17 a.m. I wake up after the chime of the clock. My first thought is: what time is it?, followed by ‘the witching hour is over’. I don’t know why I think that. It doesn’t feel as though anything has ended. Rather, it feels as though something is beginning.

The house is old, built by my grandfather in a time when people still believed that walls had ears, but also that they could keep secrets. By day it is friendly and stately, with sunlight streaming through the tall windows onto the marble floors. But at night it changes, and the grandfather clock in the hall seems to tick louder than during the day.

Every night, without exception, I wake up at the same time. 3:17. I often think someone is calling me.

I only began to understand it when one day I heard footsteps, light and hesitant, as if someone wasn’t sure whether they were still welcome. They always moved from the hall to the stairs, and then back again, as if the visitor could never decide whether to stay or leave.

One night, when the clock struck again and I sat bolt upright, I saw him for the first time. A dark figure, vague and trembling at the foot of my bed. He was dressed entirely in black. I couldn’t see his face.
I don’t know if he was looking at me, but he was certainly looking at the clock on my bedside table.

I spoke to him in my mind, and it seemed as though he understood me.
“Are you here every night?”

He slowly turned his head, as if only now becoming aware of my presence. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but distinctly British.

“I am waiting for the hour to change,” he said. “But it never does.”

I looked at the clock. The hands had stopped. It was always 3:17.

“Are you stuck?” I asked.

He smiled sadly. “Not stuck. Forgotten.”

I nodded. I knew that feeling all too well. Stuck or forgotten – to me, it was the same.

From that night on, he kept coming, and the years passed. At some point, I noticed that he was growing paler and paler. He also listened to me less attentively. On his last night, he looked at me.

“Thank you for noticing,” he said. “Most people never do.”

Then he vanished. There was no gust of wind, no flash of light, no bang. He had simply vanished.

The clock struck once. One minute later, I thought as I looked at the clock.

I now sleep through the night, but before I fall asleep and when I wake up, I keep thinking of him. I also wonder how many spirits there are who hope to be seen and heard. Know that I miss you, my friend. I hope you’re waiting for me. It won’t be much longer now. 3:17 a.m. is a good time. We can leave in peace. My last letter is ready on the sideboard.

_{14-3-2026
Prompt: see title
The Photo was taken by me - unless mentioned otherwise}