**The Stranger**
Valentine was late for the daily ten o’clock tea ritual, finishing a report on PPE expenditures across the factory sites. Finding no water left for him, he snatched the kettle and headed to the toilet.
Beneath his feet, the old floorboards creaked softly under layers of linoleum and laminatehe had stepped into the buildings original section. Behind the modern drywall lay Soviet-era green walls, and beneath that plaster and paint, narrow red bricks stamped with the year *1892*. Few in this bustling city-centre office spared a thought for its history, but Valentine knew it well. Once, it had only two storeys. In the fifties, three more were added, and by the sixties, two wings had sproutedone housing his office. His mother once mentioned that his great-grandmother, *Vasilisa* (she couldnt recall her maiden name), had worked here. He dearly hoped it was in one of the offices or shops, not in the buildings most infamous establishment: the *Imperial,* a high-end brothel occupying the second floorthe very corridor he walked daily.
Filling the kettle, he stepped out of the toilet and
There she was. A strikingly beautiful woman in a long beige dress, chestnut hair pinned into a neat bun, shoulders squared, dark brown eyes scanning her surroundings with quiet intensity. It was those eyes that rooted Valentine to the spot. As he passed her, he stumbled, sloshing water. For a moment, he staredthen flustered, he looked away.
She was nearly level with him now.
*Screw it. If she doesnt look away in three seconds, Im saying hello.*
He fixed his gaze on her, bold in a way hed never been before.
Round face, sharp chin, low brows, a delicate nose, lips pressed into a thin line.
But the stranger swept past him, the faintest trace of perfume lingering as she vanished into the ladies room.
His stolen breath returned slowly, the fairy-tale sensation fading.
*Wait for her?* The thought flickered, desperate. He lingered for minutes, glancing over his shoulder, before shuffling back to his desk. No one ever emerged from that toilet.
*Who was she?* he wondered, sitting down, forgetting to switch on the kettle. *Must be the new secretary for the director. Too stunning. Ill ask ITthey know everything.*
Work left no room for daydreams. Yet at lunch and again at days end, he searched the crowd for that beige dress.
Tuesday, ten sharp, Valentine loitered by the toilets, kettle empty. She never came. Nor the next day. Nor the one after.
Desperate, he spent his entire lunch break by the exit. She never left.
*Why would the directors secretary come down here? Maybe she was visiting someone.* That last thought stungit meant he might never see her again.
*”Hey,”* he messaged Paul from IT, *”seen the directors new secretary?”*
*”Yeah. Set up her PC last Monday.”*
Last Monday. His pulse spiked.
*”Pretty?”*
*”Obviously. Total ice queen, though. Nearly bit my head off. Knows her worth.”*
*”Whats her name?”*
*”Sarmicheva, Elena Viktorovna.”*
Sweat prickled his palms.
*”Got a photo?”*
*”Check her email profileonly one there.”*
He typed her name with trembling fingers. One result. Eyes squeezed shut, he tapped the contactand there she was. A smiling blonde. Blue-eyed.
Something inside him snapped.
*Fine.* He resolved to forget her.
*”Well? What dyou think?”* Paul prodded.
*”Fine,”* he replied absentlythen an idea struck. *”Youve got access to corridor cameras, right?”*
*”Yeah. Want a live peek?”*
*”No. Saw a girl last Monday. Beautiful. On our floor. Thought it was the new secretary. Wasnt her. Can you check who she was?”*
*”Later. Busy now.”*
Waiting was agony. The woman in beige haunted him, his heart drumming like a schoolboys.
Finally, Paul messaged.
*”When?”* he asked briskly, pulling up the CCTV feed.
*”Last Monday. Around 10:1010:15. Came from the main stairs, went into the ladies.”*
*”Right 15th, timehere.”* Paul swivelled the monitor.
The camera captured the far end of the corridor. Valentine watched himself enter the toilet, emerge, then freeze mid-step, staring atnothing. Just a blank wall. He stood there, transfixed, before shuffling away.
Silence.
Paul raised a brow. *Well?*
*”Rewind. When I come out.”*
10:17.
*”Slow it down.”*
The footage stuttered into a sluggish crawl.
*”Stop.”*
Paused.
Between Valentine and the walla faint shadow. Barely there.
*”Whats that?”* Paul squinted.
*”Nothing. Close it.”*
*”Wheres the girl?”*
*”Guess she was in my head.”* Valentine dropped a chocolate bar on the desk. As he turned to leave, a thought struck him. *”Waitcheck today, same time.”*
They scrolled through two weeks of footage.
*”No one,”* Paul concluded.
*”Right. Thanks. Mustve been a glitch.”* Valentine forced calm, though his nerves screamed. That shadow moved toward the ladies every Monday at 10:17. Why couldnt he see her again?
*”Get a girlfriend, you weirdo,”* Paul snorted.
*”I found her. The best one.”*
***
Valentine stared at the tarnished teaspoon, its ornate handle half-worn. Heavy, oddly shaped. A family heirloom passed down for generationseven his grandmother couldnt say how old they were. Hed brought this one to work a month ago, replacing a lost office spoon.
Last Monday, hed carried it in his pocket.
He hadnt since.
And he hadnt seen her since.
***
The next Monday, spoon clutched in his fist, he waited.
When she appeared at the staircase, his knees buckled.
Just like before, she glided past him, twisted an invisible doorknoband disappeared into the wall.
His throat tightened. *It worked.* He even caught the rhythmic click of her heels, the perfume now richer, sharper.
What if he used *all* the spoons?
The result surpassed his wildest hopes. As she neared, the past bled into the present: drywall melted into dark green damask, linoleum into polished parquet. Black buckle shoes clicked against wood. Scents of incense and musky perfume filled the air. Somewhere, a horse whinnied. Two men murmured in English, their slang thick, their laughter coarse.
And *her*flawless beauty now marred by reality. Powder caked unevenly, lipstick smudged, lace collar clumsily mended. Yet these flaws only stoked the fire in his chest.
Each Monday, he returned. Memorised her path, studied the gas lamps, deciphered the mens lewd chatter. He fell deeper in love, craving moreto *touch* her. His hands passed through her, but he swore he was close. So close.
Desperate, he scavenged relicsforks, books, photographs. Only the spoons worked.
Then, his mother unearthed an old geography textbook, *1912*. Its pages were crisp, its illustrations vivid.
*This was it.*
***
At ten on Monday, his boss ambushed him.
*”Need the stationery report by two.”*
*”Got it,”* Valentine muttered, already forgetting.
This time, the past swallowed him whole. Parquet underfoot, the office vanished. And*she saw him.*
Her eyes locked onto his, wide with shock.
Seizing her wrist, he blurted, *”I love you! Im from the futuremarry me!”*
He pulled her close, crushing his mouth to hers. She wrenched free, shoving him, then bolted.
*”Wait! Tell me your name!”* He chased her, grabbing at her dress, her fear spurring him faster.
She fled into the streethe followed, boots skidding on cobblestones.
*”Stop! I love you! Ill stay here with you!”*
Pedestrians gawked. A bobbys whistle shrilled.
She glanced backterrifiedthen her heel caught a gap. She fell.
A scream. Hooves. A sickening crunch.
Thennothing.
Valentine was gone. Only the spoons clattered on stone, the book thudding into dust.
The bobby picked it up. *”Bloody students,”* he spat.
Boys swiped the spoons, vanishing into the crowd.
By evening, the blood
