Strangers in the Fog: A Weekly Tale of Secrets and Slow-Burn Suspense

the brass bell above the door didn't ring it rattled a dry salt crusted cough of metal against glass last week our strangers circled an empty platform where one of them carried a train ticket dated three years in the past here the edges are softer blurred by november fog and the heavy smell of low tide the traveler pushed his collar up against the damp he wore a gray coat completely generic the kind bought off a rack with cash so no clerk remembers your face he wanted two things a box of matches and to disappear into the gray coastline until the spring ferry began running again the shop smelled of paraffin and bruised apples behind the counter

stood an older woman carving the yellow rind off a lemon with a thumbnail paring knife she didn't look up when he crossed the floorboards salt gets in the mechanism she said softly he stopped by the wire carousel of faded postcards the bell she added sticks every autumn the traveler laid a £5 note on the zinc counter just the matches please he kept his gloves on he didn't want to leave skin oil on the paper she set the knife down her knuckles were thick bent by 50 winters of damp atlantic gales she slid a box of red headed matches across the counter but she didn't pick up the currency instead her fingers rested beside the box

tapping out an odd rhythmic sequence against the zinc three short taps a beat two long ones the traveler stared at her fingers his breathing hitched barely a flicker in his throat but the woman caught it wind is picking up from the north she said her voice was flat level entirely without theatrical weight you won't get far on the cliff path tonight i have a cottage he replied out past the headland the old mason's place she nodded hasn't had smoke in the chimney since '94 he hadn't told her which cottage he rented he hadn't told the agent his real surname either it's quiet he said taking the matches it's quiet until the water rises she answered

then without shifting her weight she reached beneath the register she didn't bring out a weapon or a telephone she brought out a silver pocket watch its crystal shattered into a web of white cracks she laid it directly on top of his £5 note the traveler didn't move outside the tide sucked hard against the seawall dragging gravel back into the dark someone left it she whispered a long time ago he looked at the shattered glass underneath the fracture the second hand was frozen at twelve seconds past four he knew the scratch along the rim he knew the weight of it in a dry palm i don't know it he said the woman picked up her paring

knife again her eyes fixed entirely on the lemon peel curling into her hand i didn't say you did she replied keep the change you'll need paraffin before morning david he hadn't heard that name spoken aloud in eleven years he took the matches turned his back and pushed into the sea wind he had fled across two borders to bury a ghost believing he had out walked every living witness yet as he stepped onto the dark shingle listening to that silent brass bell behind him he realized the terror wasn't that she recognized him the terror was that she had been standing behind that zinc counter keeping the matches dry simply waiting for him to arrive