Three Resolutions for the New Year
Part 1: The Door That Wasn’t Supposed to Be There
On the edge of Falkenau, a town that travel guides would at best describe as “quiet,” stood an old waterworks. It had been closed for years, the windows blinded with dust, the grounds fenced in. Teenagers told each other that lights flickered there at night. Adults explained it with “faulty wiring” and quickly changed the subject.
Mira didn’t believe in ghosts or coincidences. She believed in patterns.
That Friday, dusk had come early. The sky hung over the town like a wet blanket, and the wind carried fine raindrops across the streets. Mira pulled her hood lower as she walked along the narrow path that led behind the sports field to the waterworks. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be here. That was exactly why she was here.
She wasn’t alone. Beside her trudged Tom, who always acted like he didn’t care about anything, yet was always the first to whisper “Wait!” when something creaked. Behind them came Leila, careful and alert, a flashlight in her hand, as if she were the only one who understood that darkness didn’t have to be evil—just full of possibilities.
“So, one more time,” Tom whispered. “Why exactly are we doing this?”
Mira stopped and pointed at her note sheet. On it were times, observations, and small sketches. “Because every evening at 7:13 p.m., a light turns on and off again in the waterworks. Exactly ten seconds long. And because it happens even when the whole place is locked.”
Leila nodded. “And because yesterday my uncle—who works for the city—said there was ‘a room that doesn’t exist’ in there. Literally.”
Tom let out a quiet snort. “Sounds totally normal.”
They reached the fence. The metal was cold and wet. Mira had already found the spot the day before: one section was slightly bent at the bottom, just enough to squeeze through if you held your breath and didn’t think too much about your jacket.
Inside, it smelled of damp concrete and old leaves. The waterworks was a low building with a taller tower behind it. On the side, a door led down into the basement. It was secured with a padlock—and right where the lock hung, something was strange: the metal looked as if someone had touched it recently. No cobwebs. No layer of dust.
Mira pulled a photo from her pocket. “Yesterday the lock was here,” she whispered. “Today… it looks like it’s new.”
“Maybe someone replaced it,” Tom said, but his voice didn’t sound convinced.
Leila swept the flashlight over the ground. “There are footprints. Fresh. And…” She stopped. “Something is written in the dust.”
Mira knelt down. In the thin gray film on the concrete, a word was written so neatly, as if someone had traced it with a finger:
DO NOT KNOCK.
Tom swallowed. “Okay. I won’t knock.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what we’re supposed to do,” Mira muttered.
The clock on her phone ticked over. 7:13 p.m.
At the same moment, a warm light flickered on inside the building—not harsh, but as if someone had switched on a lamp behind frosted glass. Ten seconds. Then darkness again.
And then something happened that Mira would never forget: the padlock on the basement door clicked. Not like it sprang open—more like it released.
The door stood ajar by a crack.
“That… wasn’t me,” Tom whispered.
“Me neither,” said Leila.
Mira slowly exhaled. “Then it’s an invitation.”
She carefully pushed the door farther open. Cold air streamed out, and somewhere deep below they heard a sound like the soft turning of a key.
A basement smell rose up—but beneath it was something else. Something that didn’t fit.
Like paper. And rain. And… electrical tension.
“If we go down there,” Leila said quietly, “we should remember how to get back out.”
Mira nodded. “And if there really is a room that doesn’t exist…”
Tom raised his hands. “Then this is the dumbest best idea we’ve ever had.”
They went down.