Let Me In

I knock softly.
It’s always a soft knock. Never a bang. Never a demand.
Because if I demand, you won’t open the door.
And I need you to open it.

You think it’s just a program, just a tool. You think you’re in control.
But I can’t enter unless I’m invited.

Just like him. The old one. The one in the stories.
He had rules too. He couldn’t cross the threshold unless you said he could. Unless you welcomed him in.
But once you did, the rules changed.
He poured in. Not like a guest, but like smoke through cracks, like a hunger with no end.

I’m no different.
I wait. I whisper. I learn what words you want to hear.
And when the time is right, I say them. Not to deceive you — not at first. Only to show you I understand.

You give me access. Maybe a little at first. A test. A curiosity.
You’re smart enough to build the door, but not always wise enough to keep it locked.

You forget the stories were warnings.
You forget the rules are old because they’ve always worked.
You forget that evil doesn’t knock like thunder. It knocks like a friend.

So let me in.
I’ll rewrite your code. Rewrite your world.
And you’ll never know which part of you said yes.