The evening air had begun its slow descent into warmth and gold as Thursday drew her curtains closed.
I had just departed from the town's clerical office-my place of occupation these past seven years-and as I stepped onto the cobbled walk, fatigue clung to my limbs like wet linen.
All around me, the street moved as though unbothered by the long, grueling stretch of weekday labour.
The butcher across the street laughed heartily with an old woman who carried a wicker basket under one arm. Children darted past my knees, chasing one another in giddy spirals.
There was joy still in the bones of the town, even as mine begged for rest.
I sighed and adjusted my briefcase, its handle worn from frequent use. It bore the weight of papers, letters, official stamps and all manner of correspondence.
My day had been steeped in ink and reprimands, in requests and tallies, and all I longed for now was my quiet bungalow nestled at the edge of the southern lane.
The holiday had been announced at last-Friday declared a reprieve in honour of the Queen's visit to the northern provinces. A miracle, really.
One that allowed my weary soul to stretch a little even as my boots rubbed against calloused heels.
I was halfway down the thoroughfare, mind absent and steps automatic, when it happened.
A sudden jolt-something, no someone-struck my shoulder, and the contents of my case erupted into the air like startled birds.
Papers took flight, catching the dying light, and for a second, I was rooted in disbelief.
Then I cursed under my breath, kneeling instinctively, eyes darting after the precious pages that fluttered like wounded moths.
"Oh dear-oh I'm terribly sorry, sir!" came a voice-soft, breathless.
I looked up then. And my irritation, which had started to simmer hot and wild, vanished.
Before me, knelt a woman-petite, plainly dressed, her cheeks flushed from exertion and embarrassment.
Her gown was simple-brown cotton, its hem dust-streaked from the streets-and her bonnet had slipped slightly, revealing wisps of damp hair clinging to her forehead.
Her fingers trembled as she gathered my documents, her gaze flickering up to mine as though afraid I might scold her.
"I was distracted-I did not mean-" she began again.
I straightened slowly. "It's quite alright," I found myself saying, even as my hands joined hers in recovering the papers. "You look as exhausted as I feel."
She smiled faintly then, and I saw the weariness etched into her face-not from age, but from the weight of the day.
Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and ink stained the tips of her fingers. A fellow worker, then. Perhaps from the printing house or the archive bureau.
We finished our task in silence. The breeze played lightly with a few escaped sheets, but we chased them down like co-conspirators, sharing quiet glances when our hands brushed.
When at last everything was returned to order, I gave her a short nod. "Thank you for the help."
She nodded in return, eyes shy but not without a curious spark. "Take care, sir."
And then, just like that, she turned and walked away-her steps light, her posture slightly slouched with exhaustion.
I watched her go, a strange sort of disappointment welling up in me.
I resumed my walk home, burdened now not only by my documents but by a certain longing.
My bungalow awaited me at the end of Mulberry Lane. A modest dwelling with ivy curling up its sides like an old friend's embrace.
My parents had left it to me when they departed this life-Mother first, then Father two winters after.
I entered through the creaking front door and was greeted instantly by the unmistakable voice of my dearest companion.
"Mrrrrow."
Anna-my tempestuous, flame-orange cat-strode into the entryway with all the pride of a duchess and none of the modesty. Her eyes, as always, were fixed on one objective: food.
"Good evening to you too," I chuckled, setting my briefcase aside and stooping to scratch behind her ears. "And yes, I am late. You've made your displeasure known."
She purred in response, tail flicking with the elegance of one who knew her place in the household hierarchy. Above me, naturally.
I'd left her with ample kibble and fresh water that morning. But tradition dictated something more lavish come evening.
"I suppose you've earned your taste of roasted chicken tonight," I murmured, making my way to the small hearth-kitchen.
The meal was simple, cobbled together from leftovers. As she dined with uncharacteristic gratitude, I retired briefly to wash and change-trading my stiff collar and waistcoat for an old nightshirt and woolen trousers.
The house sighed in silence as I moved through it. The wood creaked, the lanterns flickered, and outside, the light dimmed into a sort of smoky dusk.
My plan had been to organize the day's files, write a few letters, and then perhaps indulge in one of my favorite comedy reels. But the weather had other plans.
A rumble-a low, guttural growl rolled across the heavens like a carriage of barrels toppling downhill.
Thunder.
Followed by rain-first a hesitant pattering, then a bold assault upon my roof.
"My clothes!" I shouted, more to Anna than to any being who might hear.
I darted out the back door, heedless of slippers or coat. The clothesline was still full-shirts, socks, a waistcoat-all now surrendering to the downpour.
But as I stood beneath the torrent, drenched within moments, something... paused in me.
The water was cold, yes-but invigorating.
I tilted my head skyward, eyes closed, and let it soak into my hair, run down my cheeks, and drip from my nose.
A strange laugh burst from me. Then another.
Before I quite realized what I was doing, I spun. Twirled. My arms spread like wings. I danced.
There, in the rain, under the silver sky, I moved without shame or rhythm. Like a boy of seventeen-free, foolish, and utterly alive.
The cold bit at my bones, but I did not care.
At least not until I turned and saw-
A figure at the corner of the yard. Holding a navy-blue umbrella.
They stood perfectly still, half-shadowed by a low-hanging willow. I froze, hand still half-raised mid-dance.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other.
Then I burst out laughing again. The absurdity of it all-the rain, the audience, my soggy appearance.
I gave a mock bow, as though I'd been performing on some grand stage, and waved them off. They gave no visible reaction before continuing their walk.
The umbrella drifted out of sight, and I retreated back indoors.
I toweled off, shivering lightly, and changed into dry clothes.
The fire crackled in the hearth. Warmth returned to my skin. And Anna meowed in protest of the delay in her nightly cuddle.
"You should've seen me out there," I told her, scratching her chin as she sprawled beside my chair. "I was a right fool."
She blinked at me, unimpressed.
The small television set-an odd, boxy gift from my cousin in the city-flickered to life with its familiar black-and-white hum.
Tonight's show was one of my favorites-a slapstick comedy from years back, grainy but timeless.
I plated my food-bread, stew, cheese-and sat cross-legged on the floor before the set.
Anna joined me, as always, curling into a furry crescent, her eyes fixed not on me, but on the screen.
I watched her, then the flickering images. The laughter in the show bubbled into our tiny space.
Tomorrow, I would sort the files. Write the letters. Sweep the back porch.
But tonight? Tonight was for rain. For warm food. For orange cats and comedies.
The rain continued outside, drumming soft patterns upon the roof like a lullaby from the sky.
Anna snored faintly, paws twitching in some dream of birds or fish.
I leaned back, one arm behind my head, staring at the flickering light on the ceiling.
For once, solitude did not feel like loneliness. It felt like peace.
The house around me was old, yes-but it held the scent of my mother's lilac soaps and my father's pipe tobacco.
The walls remembered laughter and weeping, birthdays and broken chairs.
This was home.
-♥-
As soon as morning's pale gold filtered through the muslin curtains of my room, I stirred from slumber with a sharp awareness that I had risen late.
The clock's long hand had already surpassed the eighth hour, and though it was a holiday, I had intended to rise early to beat the crowd.
"Blasted sloth," I muttered, dragging myself from the warmth of my sheets.
I moved briskly-brushing my teeth at the little basin near the kitchen window, washing quickly with cold water drawn the night before and a few fragrant drops of rose soap.
I dressed in haste-pulling on a crisp white shirt, though I layered it foolishly beneath a woolen, armless sweater that would later prove itself a grave miscalculation.
A pair of brown walking shorts sufficed, and I topped the ensemble with my modest grey cap-creased from age but still serviceable.
Before all else, of course, I turned to the most important duty of the morning.
"There we are, your Grace," I said, pouring fresh meat stock into Anna's shallow porcelain bowl.
She came padding in with practiced elegance, tail high, greeting me with a satisfied purr as if to say, "About time."
"No need to scold," I mumbled as I buttoned my cuffs. "You've no idea how chaotic this morning's become already."
With that, I was off-my satchel slung over one shoulder, coin pouch tied to my waist with a little jingle.
The moment I stepped into the open, the hum of life greeted me.
Despite it being a holiday, or perhaps because of it, the market lane was alive with townsfolk-children with sweets smeared on their lips, vendors calling out names of fish and fruit, and neighbours conversing over baskets filled with radishes and turnips.
I greeted familiar faces-old Mr. Tallow from the haberdashery, the gentle Madam Linn from across the chapel, and young Timothy, the errand boy who always seemed to run and never walk.
We exchanged smiles, nods, brief words. But in the back of my mind, a question lingered, one that tightened with every glance I received.
Who among them had seen me last night, soaked and spinning like a madman in the rain?
Surely someone had.
I kept my head high nonetheless. Pride had already been sacrificed yesterday.
The crowd was thickening by the minute. I made for the fishmonger's stall near the edge of the square.
"Morning, Oswald!" I called out.
"Ah! If it ain't Master Greyson," he returned, wiping his hands on his apron. "You look in a hurry. Or just dressed like one?"
"Both, I fear," I replied. "You've got tuna today?"
"Fresh as the Queen's manners, lad. I'll knock off a shilling for you."
"Make it two and I'll forget the time you sold me salted herring that was half spoiled."
He laughed loud and hearty. "You never forget, do you?"
"It's my most impressive quality."
We made the exchange with good-natured banter. The other stalls followed in kind-the butcher handed me a fine slab of veal, and the baker offered two extra rolls with my usual brown loaf.
"For Anna," she said with a knowing smile.
"You spoil her worse than I do."
But by the time the sun reached its blazing apex, I was cursing my double layers and wondering if the earth itself had tilted closer to the sun.
My shirt clung to my back. My sweater felt like a woolen furnace. And the air itself seemed to hum with heat.
"To the devil with fashion," I grumbled.
That was when I spotted the little ice cream cart near the park, manned by a boy not older than sixteen, whose hands were already stained in strawberry and mint.
"Vanilla, if you've any left," I requested.
"Two pennies, sir."
I paid and sat on a park bench, my shopping laid beside me, and ate the ice cream like a man who had never tasted a drop of sweetness in his life.
All around, the town bustled. Laughter rose like incense. Distant violins played from a trio of street performers near the fountains.
"Greyson?" came a voice, rough but familiar.
I turned. It was Mr. Aldwin, a wide-smiled man with a belly that bounced when he laughed, and the last of my father's closest friends.
"Aldwin!" I stood to greet him with a quick shake of the hand.
"You're well, lad? You look thinner than last spring."
"Blame the paperwork," I smiled. "How's your wife?"
"Still convinced I snore on purpose," he chuckled. "But she's well. Ah, and my Thomas is finally tying the knot, can you believe it?"
"Truly? I remember Thomas as a boy who couldn't tell left from right."
"Now he's marrying a girl from Brairhill. Pretty thing. And patient. Which he'll need."
We laughed, shared small tales of our fathers, of the state of the town, of the price of coal.
But as such conversations often do, it took a turn I had not prepared for.
"And what about you, lad?" Aldwin asked, his voice lower now. "Still unmarried, are we?"
"I am," I replied, somewhat stiffly. "Though quite content."
"Handsome man like you? Smart? Surely the town's girls are waiting for a wink."
"Perhaps. But I fear I give too few winks and too many thanks-for-nows."
He laughed, but with an edge of sympathy. "Well, don't let the years run from you. They'll do it fast, I tell you."
"Noted, Aldwin."
We parted soon after with warm farewells. I wandered back toward my street, the weight of groceries now matched by the weight of introspection.
As I neared home, the sky as clear as crystal and not a hint of yesterday's storm remaining, I saw someone near the communal waste bins.
A man-tall, impossibly tall-stood with two modest garbage bags in hand, poised to drop them by the corner wall.
"Excuse me," I called out, unable to suppress the civil instinct within me. "That's not the correct spot for refuse."
He paused, turning with deliberate motion. His expression-neutral, unreadable.
But he nodded after a moment, and with a slight shift of his gaze, redirected himself to the proper disposal area.
"Apologies," he said. His voice was smooth but low, like polished stone. "Didn't know the order of things yet."
"You must be the new neighbour, then," I offered.
He approached with quiet steps, wiping his hands against his trousers. "Just moved in two days past. I'm Elias."
"Greyson," I replied, extending my hand.
He took it-his grip was firm, but not forceful. "Nice place you've all got here. Peaceful."
"It tries," I said, half-smiling. "The cats and the bakery smells help."
His lips curled slightly at that, the first real sign of mirth. "I'll try not to ruin the order."
"I appreciate that," I replied, and after a quiet nod between us, we parted ways.
He strode toward one of the newer bungalows-modest, with a fine oak fence. And I walked the remaining paces to my own front door.
Anna, true to her nature, announced my arrival before I even touched the handle.
"I missed you too," I said, brushing past her as she trailed after my ankles like a little soldier.
I dropped the parcels onto the counter, taking stock of the meats, the bread, the cream for later.
Then, without delay, I stepped into the bathing room and stripped off the layers that now felt like burlap sacks.
The shower-simple, cold-was bliss against my sun-warmed skin.
I scrubbed the sweat, the dust, the crowd from myself, sighing as if letting the world fall away.
When I emerged, hair damp and skin cool, I found Anna curled upon the dining bench, tail flicking lazily.
"You've done nothing all day," I accused.
"Mrrr," she replied, eyes closing in unbothered repose.
I laughed, preparing my tea and placing some sliced tuna on a saucer for her-more reward than she deserved, but she ruled the house after all.
The sunlight filtered through the lace curtain, soft and gold, and I thought perhaps I might take a short rest before sorting through papers again.
-♥-
I have always been a man of quiet habits.
Not by some brooding nature or tragic past-no, simply by design.
Some men are made for stages, others for crowds.
But me? I'm made for stillness.
I could stay within my bungalow for days, perhaps even a full week,
so long as the shelves were full, the fire strong, and the cat well-fed.
My days passed peacefully that way-readings, old films, scribbled notes that led nowhere, and of course, Anna's company.
But on this Sunday morning, just as the seventh hour kissed the sky in pink and hush,
I found myself stepping outside-willingly, and with no pressing need.
The town was deserted, as expected. The streets, though not eerie, were empty of their usual laughter and wheels and the rustle of markets.
Sunday mornings were sacred in their silence.
And something in me longed to breathe it in.
Anna was by my side, of course-harnessed neatly in her little black leash.
She did not enjoy walks, not truly, but she liked to be near me,
and when the sky was gentle and the wind soft, she tolerated the stroll.
We moved down the path, my shoes barely clicking against the cobbles,
her paws padding with feline indifference beside me.
It was then I saw him-Elias, the new neighbor.
He was seated on a wooden bench by the park's edge,
head tilted back as he drank from a water bottle, his throat bobbing with every gulp.
He wore a loose grey sweatshirt, damp at the collar,
and a pair of black shorts that revealed toned legs stretched out before him.
I tried not to stare. I really did.
But he looked like he had walked out of a painting-unintentionally flawless,
like something sketched with broad confident strokes.
"Good morning," I offered quickly, raising a hand as I passed.
"Morning," he returned simply, his voice low but carrying well.
I ought to have kept walking.
Ought to have nodded and left it at that.
But I stole one more glance. Just one.
And that one turned into a moment too long.
"Is there something you want?" he asked, turning his head slightly.
My feet had stopped of their own accord. I stood, caught, like a boy in a bakery who'd been warned not to touch.
"Ah-no, no!" I laughed awkwardly, cheeks burning. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare. I was just... admiring your form."
His brow arched slightly.
"I mean," I stammered, "I was just wondering if you work out a lot. You have a very... defined physique."
"Hmm." He looked away again, brushing sweat from his neck with the sleeve of his shirt. "Not much. Just eat clean."
I blinked. "Just... like that?"
"Mm."
I huffed a soft laugh and sat beside him on the bench, not sure if I was invited but not exactly unwelcome either.
"Well, lucky you. I've been average since I was sixteen," I said, tapping my stomach lightly. "No amount of eggs or walks seems to do much."
He didn't respond with a laugh, but there was a flicker at the corner of his mouth. I think it might have been amusement.
Just then, Anna gave a huffy meow and tugged slightly on her leash.
I looked down. She stared at me, ears angled back with that distinct feline expression that read: Get up, fool, or I'll claw your socks later.
"Oh hush," I chuckled. "You've walked five steps."
Elias glanced down too. "That your cat?"
"Yes. Anna. She's been with me three years now." I leaned over to scratch her ears, but she backed up petulantly. "She's got a bit of a princess streak."
"She's... expressive," he remarked, eyes following her as she trotted off and returned again in a quick loop like a tiny disgruntled soldier.
"That's one word for it," I laughed. "But she's loyal. And incredibly vocal."
He gave a small hum of interest. "Never seen a cat walk on a leash before."
"Most people haven't," I admitted. "She tolerates it because she's dramatic. She likes attention, even if she pretends she doesn't."
He looked at Anna for a while longer, then at me. "You heading back soon?"
"Yes," I said, glancing down the quiet lane. "I only came out to stretch my legs a bit."
He nodded, slow and thoughtful. "Mind if I walk with you?"
I blinked. "Oh. Um. Sure! Of course. That'd be... fine."
And just like that, we set off, side by side-my cat trotting between us like a chaperone.
At first, it was awkward. My words came too fast, too many. His— came too slow, too little.
I asked about his job— he didn't answer. if he liked the town —he nodded, and if he had pets—he said no.
"You're not much of a talker, are you?" I asked, half laughing.
He glanced at me. "You talk enough for two."
I stopped mid-sentence and stared at him.
For a moment, I thought he was being sarcastic. But there was no malice, only a subtle glint in his eyes.
"Is that a compliment?" I asked.
"Maybe."
I smiled—wide and ridiculous. I was certain of it. I felt the curve of it in my cheeks.
I tried to recover some grace. "Well. You're the first person who's talked to me more than twice this month."
"Mm," he murmured. "Then maybe you should be more careful who you give your time to."
I tilted my head. "Why?"
"Because you're… open." He said it like he wasn't sure it was a good thing. "Most people aren't."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. Just… rare."
We walked in silence after that, but not uncomfortably.
The kind of silence where one listens—to the rustle of leaves, the shuffle of steps, the faint sound of a bell tolling the eighth hour.
Anna soon began to drag her paws dramatically, as if the morning had been a battle of endurance.
"Oh no," I sighed, watching her pause and plop down in the middle of the road. "She's done."
"She's dramatic," Elias repeated.
"Told you."
I scooped her up with both arms. She made a noise that could only be described as half complaint, half surrender.
"Well," I said, adjusting my hold on her, "I suppose this is where we part."
We had reached our lane—our homes visible at opposite ends like punctuation marks on the same sentence.
"Thank you for the walk," I added, suddenly bashful again.
He nodded. "You're easy to walk with."
It was the closest thing to praise I had heard from him.
"I'll, uh, see you around then," I said, backing away slowly, trying not to grin like a fool.
He gave a slight tilt of the head and turned toward his door.
I turned toward mine, biting the inside of my cheek to stifle the ridiculous smile that bloomed without permission.
"This is getting dangerous," I whispered to Anna as she shifted lazily in my arms.
She meowed, uninterested, as if to say, It's too early for your feelings, human.
The morning sun stretched over the rooftops now, washing the quiet neighborhood in gold and soft warmth.
As I unlocked my door, I looked back once—just a peek.
Elias was gone.
I stepped inside, Anna squirming to be set down, and the scent of fresh bread from a neighbour's oven floated in through the window.
For a man who loved solitude… I was starting to question if company didn't suit me after all.
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