It’s 2:17 a.m. again. Rain streaks the cracked glass of the old phone booth like tears. You stand inside, coat damp, breath fogging the air. The receiver trembles in your hand. The dial tone hums—constant, unyielding. Then, the click.\n\n'You shouldn’t have come back,' the voice says. Yours. But not. Older. Broken. 'They know you’re listening now. They’ll come for you at dawn.'\n\nA car passes, headlights slicing through the dark. For a second, you see a figure across the street—same coat, same stance. Watching.\n\nThe voice drops to a whisper: 'If you want to live, you have to stop answering. But if you stop… I die. And you’ll never know why this started.'\n\nThe line stays open. It always does.