The doorbell rang again at 2:03 a.m.

Ethan didn’t move. He just stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, waiting for the familiar buzz to fade. It had been happening for nearly a month—always the same time, always the same silence afterward.

No one was ever there.

Neighbors joked about pranksters. One suggested faulty wiring. But Ethan knew better. The sound was too real. Too deliberate.

So he installed a camera.

The next morning, he didn’t finish his coffee.

At exactly 2:03, the footage showed a man stepping into frame. Older. Disheveled. He rang the bell once, then sat down on the porch, hugging his knees like a child.

He stayed there for twenty minutes. Crying.

The next night, Ethan waited by the door.

When it rang, he opened it.

“I used to live here,” the man sobbed. “My wife died in that bedroom. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Ethan pulled up a chair.

Sometimes, the scariest sounds are just grief knocking, hoping someone answers.