Shadow on the Side (Part 2)

The bar at the edge of the city stood like a rotten tooth, squeezed into the gap between ruins and fog. The wooden door hung crooked, its paint peeling, revealing mottled brown underneath like an old man's skin. The windows were covered with thick oiled paper, letting through a dim yellow light like an oil lamp about to go out. The fog lingered outside the door, as if afraid to enter, leaving a thin veil of damp cold that kept the warmth inside isolated. The time was 04:31:27, and there were only three people in the bar: two drunks slumped motionless at a table in the corner, and Thomas behind the counter.

Thomas was in his sixties, skinny as a dried twig, with wrinkles on his face deep enough to hold coins. He wore a faded plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, holding a tattered cloth as he languidly wiped a glass on the counter. The glass was cracked, like his life, barely usable but making do. He squinted through the dim light, surveying the empty bar, with a tired smile hanging at the corner of his mouth, as if mocking himself for still guarding this pile of junk.

The radio behind the counter crackled, intermittently playing an old song with a melody so blurred it seemed like a sigh drifting from another era. Thomas grunted, put down the glass, and pulled out an unlabeled bottle of whiskey from under the counter, pouring himself a small shot. The liquid gleamed amber in the light, like melted honey, warm yet acrid. He took a sip, his throat burning as if he'd swallowed a piece of red-hot coal. He liked the taste; it helped him forget the fog, forget the cold outside, and forget all the people who had walked in and then out again.

But tonight, he couldn't forget that guy. Simon. That face was like a nail stuck in his brain, impossible to remove. Six months ago, Simon had pushed open this door, with a scarf as blue as a piece of sky, hanging damp on his shoulders, and clutching something strange in his hand—a glass bottle containing blue particles that looked like shattered stars. He sat at the counter, ordered a whiskey, but didn't drink it, just stared at the glass, lost in thought. Thomas remembered his gaze, as if looking at something far away, too distant to grasp.

"What's that you've got there, buddy?" Thomas had asked then, pointing at the blue bottle. Simon smiled, like a child or perhaps a madman. He said: "It's a flavor, Thomas. The flavor of love." Thomas grunted, thinking he was talking nonsense, but Simon continued: "I'm making something that will remember me. But I'm afraid it might remember wrong." He didn't explain further, just stuffed the bottle back into his pocket, tossed down a crumpled bill, and walked into the fog. After that, he never came back.

At 04:33:19, the bar door creaked, and Thomas looked up, expecting another drunk to stagger in. But there was no one outside, only the fog rolling, like a grayish-blue ghost. He frowned, thinking the sound resembled Simon's footsteps, light as the wind. But he knew it was an illusion. He rubbed his eyes, his fingers touching the wrinkles at the corners, like feeling the cracks of time.

He poured another drink, the amber liquid swirling, as if dancing. He muttered under his breath: "The flavor of love, huh." He didn't believe in such things, but that blue bottle kept flickering in his mind, like an unsolved puzzle. He'd heard about Simon's laboratory at the edge of the city, in the ruins. Some said it was haunted, others said treasures were hidden there. He'd never been; he feared ghosts and treasures alike. But he knew what Simon had left behind wasn't simple, like a seed buried underground, waiting to sprout.

At 04:34:52, one of the drunks rolled over, sending an empty bottle from the table crashing to the floor, shattering into pieces of glass. Thomas sighed, picked up a broom, and went to clean up. The fragments glinted in the light, like scattered stars. As he swept, he suddenly remembered something Simon had said: "Thomas, if anyone comes asking about me, tell them I got drunk and lost my way." He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now, those words lay like a stone on his chest.

He paused, leaning against the counter, his gaze cutting through the oiled paper windows to the fog outside. Linser, Ivy, Nolan—he had seen them all, each coming here, asking about Simon. He hadn't told the truth, just said: "That guy got drunk and wandered off." But he knew Simon hadn't been drunk; he'd left with clear purpose, as if escaping from something, or perhaps searching for something.

At 04:36:07, the radio stopped, its static turning into dead silence. Thomas finished the drink in his glass, the warmth traveling down his throat, yet unable to burn away the cold in his heart. He said softly: "Where did you go, Simon?" His voice dispersed in the bar, as if swallowed by the fog.

Outside, the fog swirled, its grayish-blue shadows pressing in, as if to devour this small point of warm light.