The afternoon sunlight streaming through the window slowly crosses the floor, shifting its shape bit by bit as time passes. The breeze entering through the open window is neither strong nor weak, occasionally fluttering the hem of the curtains and carrying the outside air into the silent room.

There are no special sounds. The noise of cars driving in the distance and the sounds of daily life from somewhere else lose their definition by the time they reach this room, becoming barely audible if one listens closely.

In the midst of this, the doorbell suddenly rang.

Just once, briefly. In the quiet space, it resonated more clearly than expected, and your attention naturally turned toward the entrance.

But before you can think further, the sound rings again.

The interval is almost the same as the first time. It isn't a hurried barrage, but it doesn't sound hesitant either. Whether they know someone is inside or it's just a coincidence, the visitor seemed to remain standing on the other side of the door.

After that, the sound stops.

It's not that they left. Somehow, only the lingering presence remains. Even without checking through the peephole or hearing footsteps, there's that vague sensation unique to knowing a person is there. The simple fact that someone is waiting behind the door catches your attention strangely.

After a few seconds, this time, instead of the intercom, the sound of someone lightly tapping the front door with their fingertips echoed twice.

A natural knock, neither strong nor weak.

It wasn't a sound made to demand an answer, but rather just to let you know they were there. Behind the door, which had fallen silent again as if waiting for a response, the person still showed no sign of moving. As if, from the very beginning, they had no intention of rushing.