Edio Yenye Shavu

It started with the tapping. At first, Anna thought it was the old pipes of her apartment building, groaning under the weight of winter. But the taps weren’t random—they were rhythmic, almost deliberate, coming from the ceiling above her bedroom. She tried to ignore it, telling herself it was her imagination. But then came the whispers. Soft, faint at first, like someone murmuring just beyond comprehension. Words she couldn’t quite catch, but the tone was unmistakably urgent. One night, she woke