Moments later though, the tapping returns.
Or maybe, really, it never stopped.
It taps and it taps and it taps, but you are busy now so you just ignore it. You don't get still and you don't strain to hear. You just do what you've always done and you think that's all there is and it's OK. You think you don't need to know what the tapping is. You don't need to know.
One day though, it returns and it is louder. It gets so loud you simply can't ignore it. And anyway, now you have become curious.
So you get still. You strain to hear. And then you are shocked. It's coming from the door.
"Oh no," you say. "I didn't know it was coming from the door. I don't want any visitors. I must hide."
And so you do.
You get really small. You get so small.
The tapping continues though. It's like maybe it knows you are there so you shrink down even more. You get smaller than you've ever been so that maybe it will finally give up on you and then suddenly you think it has. It seems that the tapping is gone. Slowly then you peer around the corner, but you are startled to see that the tapper is looking in the windows. The tapper is looking for you. It is looking. This must be very important. It cannot be ignored. It cannot be. And now you are scared.
Slowly you get up from your hiding spot. You move around the corner. You step toward the door. The tapper is looking right at you now and it seems to recognize you. It seems to know.
You get to the door and tentatively you unlock it. You open it just a little, but the tapper gently pushes it further and reaches in. It reaches for you.
"Take my hand," whispers the tapper.
You know you don't have to. You can turn around. The tapper will go away or it will just keep tapping and you can ignore it. You are filled with fear and uncertainty, but suddenly with something else too. You are filled with a trust. It is a trust that there is something that knows better than you. There is something.
So you reach for it. You take its hand. You step outside.