Every night…
exactly three taps.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Always at 2:17 AM.
The family blamed tree branches.
Then the wind.
Until one night…
the father opened the curtains.
An owl was sitting on the windowsill.
Watching him.
It didn’t fly away.
It tapped again.
Three times.
Then turned its head…
toward the forest.
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The father followed the owl’s gaze the next morning.
Just beyond the tree line stood an old utility shed.
Behind it, he heard faint barking.
A young hunting dog had slipped into a narrow concrete trench hidden by tall grass.
The dog had been trapped for nearly two days.
Nobody had searched that far into the woods.
The owl had often hunted near the same clearing.
For several nights it had flown between the trapped dog and the nearest house.
Whether the tapping was coincidence or curiosity, nobody knows.
But the family never forgot that strange visitor.
The old windowsill still bears three tiny scratch marks.
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