You were seconds from snuffing the lantern out. Your fingers still hover near the wick.

Three taps. Slow. Deliberate.

Not urgent. Not loud enough to be a fist.

There shouldn't be anyone out there. Not tonight. Not at this hour.

You live a full day's walk from the nearest village. And wood doesn't knock like that.

Another rap against the door. A pause. Then a low, scraping sound against the wood. Like fingernails dragging down the grain.