A Knock at the Door

It’s the sound I’ve been waiting for, but not tonight.

The knock is too soft to be a package, too deliberate to be the wind. I freeze halfway between the couch and the kitchen, my dialysis machine humming in the background like a restless ghost. It’s always running, even when I’m not connected to it — the sound fills the apartment like breath, like proof I’m still here.

Three knocks. Then silence.

Hekate, my black cat, jumps onto the back of the couch, tail flicking toward the door like she’s ready to judge whoever’s on the other side. I check my phone — no deliveries, no visitors planned. It’s almost 10:30 p.m.

I shuffle toward the door, IV tape tugging slightly against my arm. My mother’s voice echoes in my head: Don’t open the door for anyone after dark. But then again, she also told me don’t get sick, and look how that turned out.

When I finally open the door, there’s no one there.

Just an envelope. Pale blue, taped to the frame. My name — Lily — written in neat handwriting I don’t recognize.

I hesitate before touching it. It feels almost ceremonial, the way it’s placed — deliberate, careful, like whoever left it knew exactly where I’d look first.

I close the door behind me before I open it. The paper smells faintly like lemon and hospital soap. Inside is a single folded letter.

Dear Lily,

You don’t know me, but my sister did. I think she’d want me to tell you a few things.

She was your donor.

I stop breathing.

Her name was Becca. She was twenty-three. She loved black cats, rainy days, and she made a joke once that if she ever died young, she wanted her organs to go to someone who’d use them well.

The words are too much, too soon. My chest tightens like the air’s been replaced by water. I sink to the couch. I swear I hear the dialysis machine beeping quietly in protest, sensing my movement.

I wasn’t sure if I should write this. But I follow you online — your posts about dialysis, about staying unfiltered — and I realized something. She would’ve liked you. She would’ve rooted for you.

The letter goes on, gentle and raw. Becca’s favorite song. The fact that she hated coffee but loved the smell of it. How she and her sister used to bake cookies and pretend they were hosting a cooking show.

You once said in a post that you felt like you were living on borrowed time. I don’t think that’s true. You’re not borrowing it — you’re continuing it.

That line breaks me open.

I fold the letter back into its envelope and hold it against my chest. Hekate leaps into my lap and starts to purr, that deep, grounding sound that pulls me back into the present.

I remember the machine hums again, steady and mechanical. For a moment, it sounds like a heartbeat.

The next morning, I tape the letter to my fridge, next to a grocery list and a faded photo of my mom and me before everything changed. I make myself a cup of herbal tea and sit by the window, watching the early light wash over the rooftops.

Then there’s another knock at the door.

This time, it’s real — my neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, holding a basket of muffins. “I saw you had a visitor last night,” she says softly. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling faintly. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

She leaves, and I go back inside, brushing my fingers over the taped envelope. For the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something.

Later that day, I post on social media — not for pity, not for clout, but because I promised myself I’d keep telling the truth.

There was a knock at the door last night. Not fate, not death — just a reminder that I’m still connected to someone who gave me the chance to stay. If you ever thought organ donation doesn’t matter, it does. I’m proof of it.

I attach a photo of Hekate sitting beside the used home dialysis machine, eyes half-closed like she already knows how lucky we are.

Outside, the day begins again — steady as a heartbeat.