The Stranger
Valentine was late for the tea ceremony held at ten every morning, finishing up a report on PPE usage across the factory sites. Realising no one had left him any water, he grabbed the kettle and headed to the toilet.
Underfoot, the old floorboards creaked softly beneath layers of linoleum and laminatehed stepped into the older part of the building. Behind the modern plasterboard hid walls painted Soviet green, and beneath that, layers of paint and plaster concealed narrow, bright-red bricks. If you pulled one free from the still-solid mortar, you might find an embossed date: 1892. Few in the office block in the city centre ever thought about its history. But Valentine knew. Once, it had only been two storeys. In the fifties, three more floors were added, and in the sixties, two wings were tacked onwhere his office now stood. His mum had told him his great-grandmother, Vasilisa, had worked somewhere in this building. She couldnt remember her maiden name. He could only hope shed worked in one of the offices or shopsnot in the citys most prestigious brothel, The Imperial, which had once occupied the very halls he walked daily.
Kettle filled, he stepped out of the toilet and
There she was. A stunning woman in a long beige dress, walking briskly towards him. Thick chestnut hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, shoulders proud, serious brown eyes scanning her surroundings. And those eyesValentine nearly drowned in them. He stumbled, splashing water as he passed her. For a moment, he stared right at her, then flushed and looked away.
She was nearly level with him now.
*Screw it. If she doesnt look away in three seconds, Im talking to her.* For the first time in his life, he held his ground, staring shamelessly.
Round face, delicate chin, low brows, a neat little nose, lips pressed thin.
But the stranger just breezed past, leaving the faintest trace of perfume in the air, disappearing into the ladies toilet.
His stolen breath didnt return right away. The fairytale feeling faded slowly.
*Wait for her to come out?* The desperate thought flickered. He lingered a few minutes, glancing back every few steps, but eventually shuffled towards his office. No one ever emerged from the toilet.
*Who was she?* he wondered, sitting at his desk, forgetting to switch the kettle on. *Maybe the new secretary for the director? Must be. Too beautiful. Ill ask the IT guysthey know everything.*
Mondays workload left no room for daydreams. But at lunch, and again when leaving that evening, his eyes darted through the crowds, searching for that beige dress.
Tuesday, ten sharp. Valentine stood by the toilet, empty kettle in hand. She never showed.
Nor the next day. Or the one after.
Desperate, he spent his entire lunch break near the exitbut she never left the building.
*Why would the directors secretaryfourth floorneed to come down to the second? Probably a fluke. Or maybe she was visiting someone.* The second option stungif she wasnt an employee, his chances of drowning in those brown eyes again were zero.
*”Hey,”* he typed in the work chat to Pavel from IT. *”Seen the directors new secretary?”*
*”Yep. Set up her PC last Monday.”*
*Last Monday?!* His heart hammered.
*”Pretty?”*
*”Obviously. They dont hire ugly ones. Total ice queen, though. Nearly bit my head off.”*
*”Name?”*
*”Elena Viktorovna Sarmicheva.”*
*”Got a pic?”*
*”Check her email profileonly one there.”*
His hands were clammy now.
*”Cheers!”* Glancing around as if expecting prying eyes, he typed *”Elena Sarmicheva”* into the search bar.
One result. No mistake.
He squeezed his eyes shut, clicked the contact, and stared at the photo of a smiling blonde. Blue-eyed.
Something inside him snapped.
*”Fine,”* he thought, resigned, and honestly tried to forget her.
*”So? Thoughts?”* Pavel messaged.
*”Fine,”* he replied, just to shut him up. Then an idea struck: *”Hey, youve got access to corridor CCTV, right?”*
*”Yeah. Want a live peek?”*
*”Not exactly. Saw a girl last Monday,”* Valentine admitted. *”On our floor. Stunning. Thought she was the new secretary. Turns out not. Can you check who she was? You know everyone.”*
*”Sure, but laterbusy now.”*
*”Fine. Chocolates on me.”*
Waiting for *”later”* was agony. The girl in beige wouldnt leave his head, and his hopeful heart battered his ribs. *”Pathetic,”* he muttered, forcing himself to focus on reports.
Finally, Pavel messagedready.
*”When are we looking?”* he asked briskly, pulling up the CCTV system.
*”Last Monday, around 10:10-10:15. Came from the main stairs, headed to the ladies.”*
*”Right fifteenth, time here.”* Pavel turned a monitor.
The corridor feedcamera in the far corner. Valentine watched himself walk in with the kettle, enter the toilet, exit moments later. Then, mid-step, he froze, staring at nothing. Just a wall. He lingered, then shuffled away, glancing back like a creep.
Silence.
Pavel raised a brow. *”And?”*
*”Rewindwhere I come out.”*
10:17.
*”Slow it down.”*
The footage stuttered in slow motion.
*”Stop!”*
Pavel paused it.
A faint dark blur hovered between Valentine and the wall.
*”Whats that?”* Pavel squinted.
*”Nothing. Close it.”*
*”Wheres the girl?”*
*”Guess shes in my dreams,”* Valentine muttered, dropping a chocolate bar on the desk.
Almost out the door, he hesitated. *”Waitdid you close it yet? Check today, same time.”*
They scoured every day, even weekends, going back two weeks.
*”No one,”* Pavel concluded.
*”Right. Thanksmustve glitched,”* Valentine said, hiding his racing pulse. That shadowbarely there, but moving towards the toilet*was* there. Every Monday at 10:17. Now, why couldnt he see her again?
*”Get a girlfriend, you weirdo,”* Pavel snorted.
*”Already found her. The best one.”*
Valentine studied the tarnished teaspoon in his handold, heavy, with faded engravings. A family heirloom passed down for generations. His grandmother hadnt even known their age. Hed brought this one to work a month ago, replacing a lost office spoon. Last Monday, besides the kettle, hed carried this spoonmeant to scrub off dried cake from Friday.
Naturally, hed stopped bringing it. And stopped seeing her.
That was it.
Barely surviving till next Monday, spoon clutched tight, he loitered in the corridor. When the stranger appeared from the central stairs, he nearly staggered. Just like before, she glided past, mimed opening a door (one that mustve once stood there), and vanished into the toiletstraight through the wall.
His throat went dry. It worked! He even caught the faint *click* of her heels, and her perfume grew strongerlike the spoon amplified the “signal.”
What if he brought *all* the spoons?
The result blew his mind. As she neared, the past bled into the present. Plasterboard peeled away to dark green wallpaper with gold trim. Linoleum became elegant parquet, revealing her black buckled shoes. *Click. Click. Click.*
New smells tickled his nosespicy oriental incense, musky perfume. A distant horse whinnied. Two men chatted in rapid English, their slang forcing him to later Google half the words.
And herhe saw her anew. Her skin wasnt flawlessacne, freckles, thick powder. Lipstick smudged, mascara flaking. Dust and mud speckled her dress; a clumsy stitch marred the lace collar. That proud gaze? Just squinting at tiny wall plaquesshe was nearsighted. But these flaws, turning a fairytale queen into a real girl, only stoked the fire in his chest.
She vanished. Reality snapped back. Sweating, legs weak, he gasped for air. One thought pulsed with his heartbeat: *Again.*
Every Monday, he watched. He learned her path started at the staircases last stepher apparitions origin. He walked beside her in this bubble of the past, studying gas lamps, paintings, listening, smelling.
And falling harder each time.
He stared shamelessly nowher eyes, curves, the hypnotic *
