Stranger

Ellen’s pulse surged. Someone was there . . . someone who wasn’t afraid.

“The alley behind Jack’s Bar,” the stranger’s voice came again, crisp and clear. “That’s right, on 5th.”

Chief’s composure cracked. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you little prick?!” he snarled, his voice low and venomous.

The stranger didn’t falter. “I don’t have time to explain all the details,” he continued smoothly, still calm, still controlled, “but it does involve two WPD officers. If you’re quick, you might be able to ask them yourselves.”

The footsteps grew louder. Closer now.

“I could arrest your ass,” he spat. “Don’t do anything stupid.” Chief’s tone dipping into dangerous territory.

The stranger’s footsteps halted. “And what a fantastic photograph that would make,” the stranger said evenly. “Maybe I’ll make the front page.”

The alley seemed to hold its breath.

Then . . . a burst of static.

The crackling sound from Chief’s radio broke through the moment, sharp and intrusive. A voice cut through the frequency, rough and urgent.

“Chief Anderson, we’ve got a 10-66 over on 7th. I need you and Officer Rodriguez to assist.”

Chief snatched his radio off his belt, his fingers tight around it, his voice clipped.

“Anderson. Copy. This 10-66… is this the Sunny Meadow incident?”

Rodriguez visibly stiffened. The reaction was immediate. Whatever that name meant, it meant something.

Ellen felt the shift, the silent understanding that passed between them.

The radio crackled again. “Yes, Anderson. I can confirm that.”

For the first time since he had started this game, Chief hesitated. The baton hung loosely at his side now, his grip still firm . . . but wavering. For a long moment, he seemed caught between rage and obligation. Then, finally . . . he snapped.

“C’mon, Rodriguez,” he barked. “You heard that.. we need to get our asses over to 7th.”

Rodriguez hesitated, his gaze flicking to Ellen. Sympathy flickered there . . . a quiet, fleeting acknowledgement. An apology he couldn’t say out loud. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Then, with a small nod, he turned and followed Chief, their boots crunching against the pavement, fading into the darkness.

Ellen exhaled, shaky and shallow, like she’d been holding her breath for a lifetime. But it wasn’t over. Chief stopped just before vanishing around the bend. He turned back. His eyes latched onto her, his expression curling into something ugly.

“You both had better hope we don’t cross paths again. This isn’t finished.”

Ellen’s pulse stuttered. He meant it. She could see it in his eyes . . . the promise of it. But the stranger behind her didn’t seem concerned. His voice came in the tone of somebody who was simply closing a book that had run out of pages.

“Goodbye, Chief Anderson. Officer Rodriguez.”

Chief hesitated at the sound of his name in the strangers mouth, one last glance over his shoulder . . . then he was gone. The alley swallowed them whole.

Silence.

Ellen’s legs trembled, the adrenaline draining all at once, leaving her hollow and weightless. She barely noticed the soft crunch of approaching footsteps, barely registered the presence behind her . . . until a gentle hand rested on her shoulder.

Warm. Steady. Not forceful.

“Turn around.”

His voice was low, patient, careful.

Ellen’s breath hitched . . . and then, without warning, the dam broke.

A sob tore through her, raw and guttural, ripping from deep inside her chest. Her whole body buckled, shaking, collapsing in on itself. Her hands flew to her face, but it was pointless . . . there was no hiding it, no holding it in. The weight of everything crashed down, relentless, crushing.

The stink of the alley pressed in . . . wet pavement, rotten food, oil, piss. It clung to her skin, to her clothes, to her ribs where the baton had struck. Her breath came in ragged gasps, hitching between sobs that felt like they might split her open.

Why me?

What have I done to deserve this?

The same questions she had asked as a child, cowering under a table, the sharp crack of a belt against leathered skin filling the air. The same question she had asked when she was eighteen, stuffing what little she had into a stolen duffel bag, fleeing into the night because the pain of leaving was the only thing less terrifying than the pain of staying. It had never stopped. The running. The hiding. The endless cycle of barely surviving. And now this.

The stranger’s voice came again . . . soft, but firm. “Please..” Not a command. A coaxing. A reassurance. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, his tone patient, unshaken. “They’re gone now.”

Ellen turned slowly, her head hanging low, her body convulsing with each sob. The cold air stung against her tear-streaked face. Snot mixed with tears, dripping from her chin.

She didn’t care. She had no dignity left to hold onto.

Hope was dangerous.

It was easier to believe this was just more bad luck, easier to accept that this was how things would always be. Because letting herself hope . . . letting herself believe for even a second that things could change . . . was a risk she couldn’t afford.

Through a smudge of salty tears she registered the shape of feet.

Not hers.

Then . . . a warm hand touched her chin.

Ellen froze. Her breath hitched, erratic. The contact was gentle, barely there, but firm enough to be grounding. His fingers smelled of soap, something clean, something real.

Not cigars.

Not sweat.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, hesitantly, she allowed the gentle pressure from his hand to lift her head.

Her vision was blurry, swollen from crying. The stranger’s face came into focus . . . tall, strong, but not unkind. His expression wasn’t pitying, wasn’t disgusted by the mess of her face . . . the tears, the snot, the raw, breaking thing she had become. His eyes searched hers, like he was looking for something deeper, something past all of it.

And then, softly, barely above a whisper, he said, “Everything is going to be okay.” Like a secret. Like a promise.

Ellen shook her head violently, swiping at her face with her soaked sleeve, but the tears kept coming. They weren’t just for tonight. The dam had finally broken, and she doubted it would ever stop.

“No,” she choked out, her voice fractured between sobs. “It’s not going to be okay. It never ends. It’s never going to end.” Her breath shuddered. “I accept that now.”

The stranger’s expression shifted. Darkened. Then . . . his voice rose, raw and sudden.

“No!”

Ellen’s eyes snapped up, startled. His face twisted, like he was fighting some unseen demon, some unspeakable fury.

“No,” he repeated, voice thick with something she couldn’t quite place. Then, like a vow, like an unshakable force, he said.

“It ends now.” His jaw clenched. “It ends today. Do you hear me?”

Ellen shrank slightly under his intensity, her fingers fumbling, trying in vain to wipe her face.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice softer now, but firm. “Tell me things are going to be okay. I want to hear you say it.”

Her head dipped again, but his hand was there, lifting her chin, holding her gaze steady with his own. The warmth of his palm was unexpected, real, grounding.

“Say it,” he urged, not demanding, but waiting. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Ellen stared into his eyes . . . so piercing they seemed to strip her bare, yet filled with a kindness she hadn’t felt in so long. For a moment, she thought maybe . . . just maybe . . . he believed it. That if he could, then maybe she could too.

Her lips trembled, voice faltering. “It’s… it’s…” Her throat tightened, her chest constricting, as if the words themselves were caught somewhere deep inside her.

“Okay,” he whispered, his tone gentle now. Patient.

Ellen squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep, unsteady breath. “It’s going to be…” She exhaled, voice barely above a whisper but growing steadier. “…Okay.”

A small, flickering smile pulled at her lips, a brief moment of relief washing through her. She’d said it. She’d found control . . . even if just for a moment. The tears slowed, leaving her cheeks damp but no longer flowing.

“That’s it,” the stranger said, his voice warm, reassuring. “That’s great. You’re doing great.”

Ellen nodded, her body still trembling, but lighter somehow.

“Now,” he said, his tone shifting into something almost light-hearted, practical, as if the world hadn’t just threatened to collapse around her, “let’s get you and those bags inside. You look like you could use a nice hot drink.”

He paused, a playful grin tugging at his cheeks.

“between me and you, I have biscuits.”

A startled laugh spluttered from her lips . . . a sound so foreign, so unexpected, it felt like it belonged to someone else. She nodded, swiping at her face again, wet skin on wet skin, trying to compose herself.

The attempt was pointless . . . her motion only smeared the mix of tears and snot further across her cheeks. visibly she was making things worse, she hesitated, self-conscious, her face burning.

The stranger chuckled softly. “Here, hold this for me.”

She looked up, blinking as he handed her his phone. Ellen took it automatically, the faint murmur of a voice on the other end reminding her of the ongoing call. The Washington Post.

The thought barely registered before she felt movement . . . the briefest brush of dry fabric against her cheek.

She flinched.

Startled.

Before she could react, the sleeve of his sweater swept across her face in swift, confident strokes, wiping away the damp mess without hesitation. The action was so casual, so practised, as if done a thousand times before. Like she were nothing more than someone who simply needed cleaning up.

Ellen stood there, rooted to the spot, gripping his phone in one hand, her bra still crumpled in the other, utterly dumbfounded.

The stranger calmly gathered her scattered belongings, moving with efficiency, no hesitation. When everything was packed, he picked up the three bags with little to no effort and headed towards the back of the bar. A trash bag leaning against its door, propping it open.

“C’mon,” he called over his shoulder.

The alley smelled of rain and stale beer, of cigarette butts ground into the pavement, of old, wet trash. The scent curled in the damp air, clinging to the brick walls like something alive. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared . . . a sharp, indifferent note, a reminder that the rest of the city was still moving, unaware that her world had just tipped sideways.

At the door, the stranger paused, nudging the bulging black trash bag with the toe of his boot. “Sorry. do you mind throwing this in the can? I was actually in the middle of taking it out when I saw you.”

He gave the bag another light kick. “I’ll stash your stuff in the boiler room inside… it’ll dry out in no time.”

The words didn’t fit. The casual normalcy of them. Trash bags. Boiler rooms. Like they hadn’t just clawed their way out of something raw and unspeakable. The alley still carried the echoes of it . . . the scrape of a baton against wet pavement, the suffocating scent of Chief’s sweat and cigars, the cold press of metal against her skin. The memory sat heavy in her chest, a dull weight she couldn’t shake. But the stranger was standing there, completely unfazed, talking about trash and damp clothes like none of it had ever happened.

Like it hadn’t been real.

“Wait!” she called out, sharper than she intended.

He stopped, turning to face her.

The word hung between them. Ellen swallowed, trying to force her mind into something solid, something that made sense. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice steadier than she expected.

His expression flickered . . . just for a second . . . as if the question had pulled him out of somewhere else. Then he smiled, but it wasn’t the easy, effortless kind she might have expected. There was something behind it . . . a weight, a pause, as though he were deciding how much of himself to give.

“Sorry,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I have a strange habit of…” He trailed off, his gaze slipping, unfocused for a beat before snapping back, locking onto her with quiet intensity. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted, the words slower, more careful, laid down like stepping stones over ice. “I have a habit of.. talking to certain people.. strangers.. in a way that might suggest.. I’ve known them longer than.. a moment.”

The alley, which had been a cage of shadows and suffocating fear just minutes ago, had transformed. The puddles that had once swallowed Chief’s footsteps in their reflection now shimmered, fractured light dancing over the brick walls. The air was still damp, but the weight had lifted, like she could breathe again.

“My name is Seth,” he added. His smile faltered, just for a second… a flicker of something unspoken, unreadable, quickly tucked away. “I’ve just started working at Jack’s bar. Today’s my first day. Jack,… the owner,… he’s my dad.”

Ellen’s brow furrowed. Then, slowly, her expression softened. “Hello, Seth,” she said, her voice steadier. “I’m Ellen, and I work at the bar too… usually the night shift.”

Seth nodded. “Nice to meet you, Ellen,” he said simply. Then, without another word, he turned and walked through the open door, vanishing inside with her bags.

Ellen approached the trash bag. Then, realising both her hands were still occupied with items . . . she remembered.

Seth’s phone.

She still had it. She turned the device over in her hand as if doing so might explain something . . . anything. Then, a sound. A faint, scratchy voice from its speaker. The Washington Post were still there. Had they been listening this whole time? She hesitated, then lifted it to her ear.

“…On the sound of the third beep,” a voice intoned, mechanical and distant, “the time will be eight… seventeen and thirty seconds… 

Beep…

…Beep…

…Beeeep!”

Ellen ended the call, staring down at the phone in her hand, her arm dropping limply to her side. Her mouth hung open.

Not . . . The Washington Post.

The Talking Clock.

Seth had been . . . bluffing.