The Third Minute

She answered a phone call from her own number.

At first, Zoe thought it was a glitch. Her phone had been acting up—restarting randomly, sending ghost notifications—but this was new. Her own name flashed on the screen, along with her number, at exactly 3:03 a.m.

Still half-asleep, she pressed accept, heart knocking against her ribs.

“Hello?”

Static. Then a voice. Her voice.

“Zoe, listen. You have to leave the apartment. Now.”

She sat up in bed, the voice unmistakably hers, but strained, panicked. The line crackled, then dropped.

Zoe stared at her phone. Call duration: 00:07.

She blinked, ran her fingers through her hair, and laughed nervously. Sleep paralysis? A prank? But no one had access to her number. Not even her ex, Liam. She'd changed it.

The silence in her apartment felt too heavy now. Too still.

She threw on a hoodie and padded barefoot to the window. From her fourth-floor unit, the street below looked empty. But something moved in her periphery—a flicker of motion by her door. She turned, heart thudding.

Footsteps. Soft. Slow. Inside the apartment.

She hadn’t heard the lock turn.

Zoe backed toward the kitchen, fumbling for something—anything—to use as a weapon. Her fingers closed around a heavy glass mug.

Then her phone rang again. Her number. 3:06 a.m.

She didn’t answer.

The footsteps stopped.

Silence.

She pressed her back to the fridge, trying to steady her breath. Slowly, she raised the phone to her ear and hit redial.

No answer.

Instead, her front door creaked open.

And standing there, wearing her face and her clothes—an exact replica of her, only... wrong—was the woman who’d made the call.

“You didn’t leave,” her double said softly.