“Sweet dreams, Adam.”
And then he is gone. Just like that. The shadows dissipate and the room is empty again. The only light is the faint glow of the streetlamp outside my window.
There is no time to be relieved, or to process, or even to gather my thoughts. Because almost as soon as he disappears, sleep drags me under and takes me far away from any ability to think.
But I dream of glowing red eyes and shadows that move like smoke.
Chapter 2
The Morning After
Iwakeuptomyalarm screaming at me like it has a personal vendetta.
I groan and fumble for my phone. My head feels stuffed with cotton wool. My eyes are gritty and sore. Every muscle in my body aches as if I’ve run a marathon in my sleep.
I silence the alarm and flop back onto my pillow. Just five more minutes. That’s all I need. Five minutes to brace myself for life, existence and everything that comes with it…
My gaze drifts to the nightstand.
The ring is there.
Oh fuck.
I bolt upright. My heart hammers against my ribs. The ring sits there innocently, gleaming in the morning sunlight that’s streaming through the window. Mocking me with its existence.
This can’t be real. It can’t be.
I reach out with a shaking hand and pick it up. It’s warm. Solid. Definitely not imaginary. I turn it over in my fingers, looking for anything that might explain where it came from. An inscription. A hallmark. Literally anything.
But there is nothing. Just smooth gold.
What the actual fuck.
I drop it back on the nightstand and press my hands against my face. Okay. Okay. There has to be a logical explanation forthis. Maybe I bought it online while drunk and forgot about it. Maybe it was left here by the previous tenant. Maybe I’m having a psychotic breakdown.
That last option is looking increasingly likely.
I check the time on my phone and swear loudly. I have exactly twenty-three minutes to get ready and get to work. There is no time for a proper freak out. The existential crisis is going to have to wait.
I scramble out of bed and head for the shower. The hot water helps. A little. At least it wakes me up enough to function.
I dry off quickly and pull on my work clothes. Black jeans. Black tee shirt. The apron is at the coffee shop. I look at myself in the mirror and wince. I look like death. There are dark circles under my eyes. My mousy hair is sticking up in every direction. I look like I’ve been possessed.
Which, given last night, might not be far from the truth.
I grab my phone and keys and take one last look at the ring. Should I take it with me? Throw it away? Pretend it doesn’t exist? Yeet it into the fires of Mount Doom?
In the end, I leave it where it is. Out of sight, out of mind. Or at least, that’s the plan.
I lock up the flat and jog down the stairs. The building is old and creaky. The walls are thin enough that I can hear my neighbour’s television blaring. The carpet on the stairs is threadbare and stained.
It’s not a terrible place. But it’s not home either.
This flat belongs to my uncle. Or rather it belongs to a Housing Association, and they gave him a tenancy last time he was discharged from a psychiatric hospital. He asked me to look after it while he spends the winter in Thailand.
Practically rent free. Which is the only reason I can afford to live in Bristolat all.
The problem is, he is coming back in April. Which gives me about five months to figure out where I’m going to live next. And on a barista’s salary, my options are limited. Very limited.
