The 3 a.m. Delivery

At 3:10 a.m., your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Order delivered.

You squint at the screen, too bright. You didn't order anything. Not this week, not this month. But the message is clear: a package in your name, your address, your floor. Left outside your door.

A mistake. A night driver at the wrong building. But at three in the morning, the thought of a box on your doormat, where anyone could see it, bothers you enough to get up.

The floor is cold under your feet. You cross the apartment without turning on a light.

· · ·

Through the peephole, the landing is empty. The hallway light is off, a strip of light glows under your neighbor's door across the hall. You look down as far as you can, warped by the lens.

No package.

You shrug. You go back to bed, phone in hand.

It buzzes again.

Your driver added a photo.

· · ·

You open it. Your front door. The package, on the mat. A plain brown box, your name in marker.

Except something's off. It takes you a few seconds to see what.

The photo was taken from inside.

You can see your coat rack, your jacket hanging on it. Your keys, on the little table, where you drop them every night. That isn't the mat on the landing. It's the one in your hallway.

The package isn't outside your door. It's inside.

· · ·

You get up again. You turn on the hallway light.

There it is.

Exactly like in the photo. The brown box on the mat, a foot and a half from the locked door. Your name on it.

In your handwriting.

You pick up your phone. You zoom in on the photo, two fingers that won't hold still. On the hallway wall, there's the mirror. And in the mirror, you can see who's taking the picture.

Bare feet. Your phone in hand. Your pajamas. Eyes closed.

· · ·

You open the package. The tape peels off easily, as if it had already been opened.

It's empty.

Just a little cold at the bottom of the box, and a smell you don't recognize.

Whatever was inside, nobody delivered it.

You're the one who let it in.