The Flashing Light
Less than a week later, things started getting strange.
One night I was sitting in my dark living room when I noticed a flickering light from Leo’s bedroom window.
Three short flashes.
Three long flashes.
Three short flashes.
S.O.S.
Morse code.
My pulse immediately quickened. At my age, surprises like that aren’t exactly healthy.
I stood up slowly, joints cracking like dry wood, and moved toward the window.
The neighborhood outside was perfectly calm. No screams. No danger. Just the repeated blinking of a flashlight.
The next morning, the family looked completely ordinary.
Sarah watered flowers in the yard. David left for work in one of his crisp pressed shirts. Leo climbed into the car with his backpack over his shoulder.
Everything looked normal.
So what did the signal mean?
I convinced myself the boy was fooling around.
But the signal appeared again the next night.
And the night after that.
Eventually it began to feel less like a coincidence and more like a prank.
On the fourth night, I finally reacted.
I reached over and flicked my lamp on once. A sharp burst of light.
The flashlight across the street instantly disappeared.
