I dreamed

The house was quiet, the air thick with the scent of dew-drenched grass and a hint of old wood polish. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked out 3:17 AM, but time seemed to stretch and fold in unexpected ways. Outside, the park camera had turned its lens black and white again, capturing the world as if through a sepia filter.

A figure loomed in the driveway, an old man with weathered hands and a faded fedora. His eyes were fixed on the front door, though he didn't seem to notice it. Instead, his gaze was drawn to the park camera’s now-black-and-white lens. He reached out as if to touch it, fingers hovering over the glass.

A knock sounded at the door—soft, deliberate—and the old man jumped back, whispering, "Not today," before melting into the shadows. The knock repeated, louder this time, and I hesitated, wondering who could be visiting so late.

The camera’s caption flickered to life: “A black and white photo of a tree.” As if guided by an unseen hand, my feet carried me towards the front door. With each step, the air grew colder, as if autumn had descended upon the house early. I pulled the doorknob, but it didn’t turn; instead, the camera lens seemed to shift focus, capturing something beyond the frame.

A small voice echoed inside: “The white SUV’s driver listens to the same song every morning.”