The hallway feels colder than the rest of the house, as if the walls absorb every sound except the one they’re waiting for. The landline sits on its table, an old rotary phone left behind by the previous owners. At 11:59, the air grows heavier, stiller, like the house is holding its breath. And then, right on cue, the clock clicks to midnight. The phone rings, sharp and echoing in the quiet. Three rings. Four. Five. Each one louder than the last, demanding to be answered.