Park

The park radiated calm. Light shimmered from a frozen lake, bare branches swayed gently in the breeze. Ellen sat on a worn wood-iron bench, a paper cup of coffee balanced between her knees and half a burger in her hand. Pigeons circled her boots, hopeful for crumbs. Her bags formed a barricade beside her. A small monument to poor luck and bad decisions.

The dog sat at her feet, tongue lolling, eyes fixed on the pigeons. When she bought her lunch from the street vendor, she’d asked for a sausage too…“for the dog,” she’d said. He’d wolfed it down, tail thumping the pavement. She wondered when he had last eaten. Maybe they were both hungry.

Now they watched the park’s slow-motion chaos. Office workers escaping fluorescent prisons, joggers pretending not to hate themselves, ducks by the frozen lake arguing over thrown bread. Somewhere, kids kicked a football and someone’s radio leaked tinny pop music.

For a moment, Ellen almost felt invisible . . . in a good way.

Then thunder rolled, low and far off. She looked up. Dark clouds smudged the distant horizon. “Not rain again,” she muttered. 

She took another sip of coffee, steam flapping in the winter air. Its warmth traced a path down her throat, spreading through her chest. She let herself enjoy the brief tranquillity, knowing from experience it never lasted. She stared ahead without really seeing. Watching everything and nothing.

Movement caught her eye. A couple walking hand in hand.

Tod . . . and Amy.

Her stomach twisted. Of all the parks in this damn city.

If they stayed on that path, they’d pass right in front of her. They’d see the bags. The dog. They had offered her a bed, and she’d been too proud and lied. Said she had somewhere to stay. Pride burned in her chest. She couldn’t let them see her like this.

Ellen wrapped the remains of her burger, crammed it into her coat pocket, and started fumbling for her bags. The coffee cup slid from her knees and hit the ground, brown liquid spreading over the gravel.

“Fuck’s sake.”

She hauled the bags up, slinging the straps over her shoulders, muttering curses. The dog scrambled to its feet, tail wagging as if this were an adventure. Together they staggered off the path, behind the bench, through a line of wet bushes that clawed at her coat and hair.

On the other side, another stretch of park. Another path. Another row of benches.

She spotted one half hidden under a tree, quiet, good cover. Perfect. As she rounded the trunk, she saw someone already there. Same idea as hers. Another familiar face.

The tramp from yesterday . . . the alley behind the bar.

He was slouched forward, wrapped in layers of rags. When their eyes met, his went wide, startled, guilty. He looked like he might bolt.

Ellen turned away. Enough people for one day. Two steps, then she stopped, fists balling.

“No,” she said to no one.

She turned and marched toward him.

He flinched, half-standing, a cornered animal.

“Don’t even think about it,” she snapped.

He froze. She dropped her bags with a heavy thud. “I want answers.”

The Alsatian growled low beside her, eyes fixed on the man.

The tramp blinked, confusion flickering across his grime-streaked face.

“Bad luck,” she said. “You said that yesterday. Why?”

He gripped the bench’s iron handle, ready to run, eyes darting between her and the dog. “Just… fuck off,” he said finally, voice dry and cracked. “You’re like a damn lighthouse.”

Ellen’s fear gave way to fury. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what that means.”

He said nothing. His focus drifted; his lips moved soundlessly.

Ellen sighed and pulled the wrapped remains of the burger from her coat pocket. “I’ll trade you this. You tell me about bad luck. Lighthouses. Shades.”

He smiled, a thin, broken line. A nod, an extended hand, dirty, chewed nails, scabby knuckles. That got his attention. His fingers twitched. He licked his lips.

“Tell me what Shades are.”

He hesitated. “That’d take too long to explain. Anyway, truth is, nobody really knows. We just see what we see. Not like we can ask ’em.”

Ellen pulled the food back, unimpressed.

He got the message. “Okay, okay,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “They’re like… hungry ghosts. Got lots of names, but most of us ’round here call ’em Shades… or Pretas.”

Ellen handed him the burger. He snatched it and peeled back the paper.

“What exactly does a ghost eat?” she asked.

“Pain… They fatten us up, milk us like dairy cows.” The burger disappeared into his matted beard, followed by wet, greedy noises.

“Tell me about the lighthouse. Why have I got bad luck?”

He shrugged. “Guess some of us just taste better. I see things. I see you. I see…”

He stopped mid-breath. His eyes fixed past her shoulder, face draining pale.

Ellen turned.

The bald man from the hotel was walking toward them. The dog wagged its tail happily. He no longer had his duffel bag, just a briefcase and something orange wrapped in a dry-cleaner’s bag.

When she looked back, the tramp was gone.

The bushes rustled behind her. She caught a glimpse of movement . . . then nothing.

The bald man stopped beside her. “Did the wanderer trouble you?” he asked. She still couldn’t place his accent.

Ellen stared at the empty bench. How much should she believe? Maybe just the ramblings of a drunk. Either way, she’d never know now. 

Typical.

“No, just give me my money,” she said, annoyed that the tramp had left without answering all of her questions. She held out the dog’s lead. 

He pulled cash from his pocket and swapped it for the lead. Ellen didn’t count it, just stuffed it into her coat and hefted her bags.

“Was the hound faithful in your keeping?” he asked earnestly, puzzled by her tone.

“Yes, he was a good dog,” she said, before turning and walking away . . . then she stopped. “You know, he is a good dog. A really good dog.” Her voice was sharp, venting frustration. “The least you could do is give him a real name. I can’t believe you just named him ‘Dog.’” She turned sharply and marched off, clumsy under the weight of her bags.

The bald man smiled warmly, watching her figure shrink in the distance. He knelt beside the dog and spoke in its ear, in the tone of a man addressing something ageless. “You feel it, do you not? Her spirit burns hot with a tiger’s flame. Fierce. Strong. Graceful. Born for the storm.” He glanced back up at Ellen, waddling with the weight of her three bags suddenly misstep, trip over her own foot, stumble a few steps, regain her stride and carry on walking. 

“Grace,” he murmured, “is a creature that sometimes takes the longer road.”