The clock struck midnight as rain began to fall steadily. Detective Lane stepped onto the porch, hat dripping wet, gloved hand reaching. The door creaked open, revealing shadows dancing in the dim hallway light. A single lamp glowed faintly on the oak table near the body. Blood pooled beneath the victim’s head, dark and slowly spreading outward. The knife lay nearby, handle polished, blade stained crimson and gleaming. No footprints marked the carpet, no signs of forced entry detected. The windows were locked, curtains drawn, air thick with silence and fear. A pocket watch dangled from the victim’s vest, chain broken, time frozen. Detective Lane knelt, examining the scene with cold, practiced precision. Then a faint sound echoed—a whisper, perhaps, or just the house settling. Somewhere, a clock ticked, counting seconds slipping into the unknown dark.