The Stranger
By the time the usual tea break rolled around at ten in the morning, Simon was late, 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 loo.
Underfoot, the old floorboards creaked faintly beneath layers of linoleum and modern laminatehe’d stepped into the older part of the building. Behind the sleek drywall were walls painted in that faded institutional green, and beneath that, layers of plaster hid narrow, bright red bricks. If you pried one loose from the still-solid mortar, youd find the year 1892 stamped into it. Most people in this central London office block never thought about its history. But Simon did. Once, the building had only been two storeys tall. In the fifties, they added three more floors, and by the sixties, two wings had been tacked onwhere his office now sat. His mum had told him his great-grandmother, Eleanor, had worked somewhere in this building. She couldnt remember her maiden name, though. He really hoped shed been in one of the offices or shops, not the most infamous brothel in the city, *The Imperial*, which had occupied the very corridor he walked every day.
Filling the kettle, he stepped out of the loo and
There she was. A strikingly beautiful woman in a long beige dress, walking briskly towards him. Chestnut hair was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, her shoulders set with quiet pride, her serious brown eyes scanning the hallway. And in those eyes, Simon drowned. He stumbled, splashing water as he passed her, staring openly before embarrassment made him look away.
She was nearly level with him now.
*Sod it. If she doesnt look away in three seconds, Ill talk to her.*
For the first time in his life, Simon held a womans gaze like that. Round face, narrow chin, low brows, a delicate little nose, lips just slightly pursed. But the stranger swept past him without a glance, leaving just a whisper of perfume in her wake before disappearing into the ladies.
His stolen breath didnt return straight away. The fairy-tale feeling faded slowly.
*Should I wait for her?*
He hovered for a minute, glancing over his shoulder, then shuffled back to his office. No one ever came out of that loo.
*Who was she?* he wondered, sitting at his desk, forgetting to switch the kettle on. *Must be the new secretary for the MD. Bloody gorgeous. Ill ask the IT ladsthey know everything.*
Work didnt leave much room for daydreaming. But at lunch, and again when he left that evening, he scanned the crowd for a glimpse of that beige dress.
By Tuesday at ten, Simon was already loitering by the loo with an empty kettle. She never showed. Nor the next day. Or the day after.
Desperate, he spent his entire lunch break near the exitbut she didnt leave the building.
*Why would the MDs secretary come down to the second floor? Mustve been a fluke. Or maybe she was visiting someone.* He didnt like that second optionit meant the chances of drowning in those brown eyes again were slim.
Time to test the first theory.
*Hey*, he tapped out to his mate in IT, Liam, *seen the MDs new secretary?*
*Yeah, set her computer up last Monday.*
Last Monday! His pulse jumped.
*Pretty?*
*Course. They dont hire ugly ones. Proper ice queen, though. Nearly bit my head off.*
*Whats her name?*
*Emily Whitaker.*
*Got a photo?*
*Check her profile in the directory.*
His hands were slick with sweat.
*Cheers, mate.*
Glancing around like a man about to commit a crime, he typed *Emily Whitaker* into the search bar. One resultno mistake. Squinting, he clicked the profile and stared at the photo of a smiling blonde with cool grey eyes.
Something inside him tore.
*Oh well.* He shoved the stranger out of his mind.
*So, what dyou think?* Liam messaged.
*Alright*, Simon replied, just to shut him up. Then an idea struck.
*Youve got access to the corridor cameras, yeah?*
*Yep. Fancy a live peek?*
*Not exactly. Saw this girl last Monday. Proper fit. Thought she was the new secretary, but turns out shes not. Reckon you could check the footage, tell me who she is?*
*Sure, but laterswamped right now.*
*Fine. Chocolate bar in it for you.*
Waiting was agony. That beige dress haunted him, and his heart battered his ribs like a lovesick teenager. *Pathetic*, he scolded himself, forcing his focus back to spreadsheets.
Finally, Liam messaged: *Ready.*
*When are we looking?* Liam asked, pulling up the surveillance system.
*Last Monday, around ten past ten. She came from the main stairs, went into the ladies.*
*Right, 15th, time here.* Liam turned his monitor.
The camera angle showed the far end of the corridor. Simon watched himself walk in with the kettle, leave the loo, then freeze mid-step, staring atnothing. Just a blank wall. He stood there for minutes, then shuffled off, glancing back like a madman.
Silence.
Liam raised a brow. *And?*
*Rewind to when I come out of the loo.*
The timestamp read 10:17.
*Slow it down.*
The footage stuttered in slow motion.
*Stop!*
Liam paused it.
There was somethingbarely visiblea shadow between Simon and the wall.
*Whats that?* Liam squinted.
*Nothing. Close it.*
*Wheres the girl?*
*Guess she was in my head.* Simon dropped a large Dairy Milk on the desk, which vanished into a drawer. He nearly left, then paused.
*You still got it open? Check today, same time.*
They scoured two weeks of footage.
*No one,* Liam concluded.
*Right. Cheers, matemustve imagined it.* Simon fought to keep his voice steady. That faint shadow, moving towards the ladiesit *was* there. Every Monday at 10:17. Now he just had to figure out why he couldnt see her again.
*Find yourself a real girl,* Liam teased.
*Already have. The best one.*
Simon stared at the tarnished teaspoon in his handtoo old for even baking soda to clean. Heavy, oddly shaped, with worn engravings on the handle. A set of them had been passed down for generations; even his nan didnt know how old they were. Hed been given the set as a boy, solemnly instructed to treasure and pass them on. Hed taken it seriouslythough hed immediately started using one. That one was at home. This particular spoon had been in his pocket last Monday, along with the kettle, because hed meant to wash off Fridays cake crumbs.
Naturally, hed stopped carrying it. And stopped seeing her.
That was it.
The next Monday, spoon clutched in his fist, Simon lurked in the corridor. When the stranger appeared from the main stairs, his knees nearly buckled. Just like before, she passed him, made that familiar door-opening motionthough the door itself was long goneand vanished through the wall into the loo.
He swallowed thickly. It worked! He could even hear the faint *click-click* of her heels now, and her perfume was strongerthe spoon was amplifying the *signal*.
What if he used *all* the spoons?
The result blew his mind. As she approached, the past seeped into the present. The drywall panels melted into dark green upholstery with gold trim, the linoleum became polished parquet, and suddenly, her black buckle shoes were visible, tapping against the floor. *Click. Click. Click.*
Unfamiliar smells teased his nosespicy incense, the musky tang of old-fashioned perfume. Somewhere distant, a horse whinnied. To his left, two men chattered in rapid, slang-heavy English (he had to Google half the words later), swapping stories about some Madame Fifi.
And the strangershe wasnt as flawless up close. Her skin had blemishes, her cheeks were powdered thickly, her lipstick uneven, her lashes flaking with old mascara. Dust clung to her dress, mud speckled the hem, and the lace collar had been clumsily stitched in one spot. That proud gaze? Just her squinting at the tiny labels on the opposite wall. But these flaws only made his heart burn hotter.
She disappeared. Reality snapped back. Drenched in sweat, legs wobbling, all Simon could think was: *Again.*
Every Monday, he watched the same scene. He memorised her routealways starting on the bottom stair. He walked beside her in that bubble of the past, studying the gas lamps, the paintings, the smells. He even deciphered the mens chattheyd been
