The Stranger
Valentine was late for the daily ten o’clock tea ceremony, finishing a report on PPE expenditure across factory sites. Seeing 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 laminatehed stepped into the buildings original section. Behind the modern plasterboard hid Soviet-era green walls, and beneath that, narrow, startlingly red bricks. If you pried one free from the stubborn mortar, youd find an embossed year: *1892*. Few office workers in the city centre pondered the buildings history. But Valentine knew it. Once just two storeys, it gained three more in the fifties and two wings in the sixties, where his office now stood. His mother had mentioned his great-grandmother Vasilisa once worked hereshe couldnt recall the maiden name. He desperately hoped shed been in one of the offices or shops, not the prestigious brothel, *The Imperial*, which had occupied the very second-floor offices he passed daily.
Filling the kettle, he stepped out of the toilet
And there she was. A breathtaking woman in a long beige dress strode toward him. Thick chestnut hair was pinned neatly at her nape, her shoulders square, serious brown eyes scanning the hallwayeyes Valentine drowned in as he stumbled, splashing water. For a heartbeat, he stared. Then, flustered, he looked away.
She was almost level with him.
*Sod it. If she doesnt look away in three seconds, Ill talk to her.* For the first time in his life, he held a womans gaze, bold and unblinking.
Round face, delicate chin, low brows, a small, neat nose, lips pressed thin.
But she swept past, leaving a whisper of perfume, and vanished into the ladies.
His stolen breath returned slowly. The fairy-tale feeling faded.
*Wait for her?* The desperate thought flickered. After lingering a few minutes, glancing over his shoulder, he shuffled back to his office. No one emerged.
*Who was she?* he wondered, sitting at his desk, forgetting to switch the kettle on. *Probably the new secretary for the directormust be. Too beautiful. Ill ask ITthey know everyone.*
Work swallowed Monday whole, leaving no room for daydreams. Yet at lunch and again that evening, he scoured the crowds for the beige dress.
Tuesday, ten sharp, Valentine stood by the toilets, kettle empty. She never came. Nor the next day. Or the next.
Desperate, he spent his entire lunch break near the exitbut she never left.
*Why would the directors secretary come down to the second floor? Mustve been a fluke. Or maybe shes a contractoror visiting someone.* He refused to entertain the latter; it meant his chances of losing himself in those brown eyes again were zero. The first option, thoughthat was worth pursuing.
*Hey,* he messaged Paul from IT, *seen the new secretary for the director?*
*Yeah. Set up her PC last Monday.*
Last Monday! His pulse spiked.
*Pretty?*
*Obviously. They dont hire ugly ones. Total ice queen, though. Gave me hell.*
*Name?*
*Sarmicheva, Elena Viktorovna.*
*Got a photo?*
*Check her profile in the directoryonly one there.*
His palms slicked with sweat.
*Cheers!* Glancing around like a spy, he typed *Sarmicheva Elena* with trembling fingers. One resultno mistake. Squinting, he clicked. A smiling blonde stared back. Blue-eyed.
Something inside him tore.
*Fine,* he thought bleakly, forcing her from his mind.
*Well?* Paul messaged.
*Alright,* he replied, just to end it. Then an idea struck: *Youve got access to hallway cams, right?*
*Yeah. Want a live peek?*
*Not exactly. Saw a girl last Monday,* he admitted. *Our floor. Stunning. Thought it was the new secretary. Turned out not. Can you check who she was? You know everyone.*
*Sure, but laterbusy now.*
*Deal. Chocolates on me.*
Waiting was agonythe girl in beige haunted him, his heart hammering like a teenagers. *Pathetic,* he scolded himself, forcing focus onto spreadsheets.
Finally, Paul was ready.
*When are we looking?* he asked briskly, pulling up the CCTV system.
*Last Monday, around 10:1010:15. Came from the main stairs, went into the ladies.*
*Right, 15th, time Here.* Paul turned a monitor.
The corridorcamera in the far corner. Valentine watched himself enter the toilet, emerge moments later, walk, trip, then freeze, staring at nothing. He stood, transfixed, before shuffling away, glancing back.
Silence.
Paul raised a brow. *And?*
*Rewind to when I leave the toilet.*
10:17.
*Slow it down.*
The footage jerked in slow motion.
*Stop!*
Paul paused.
A faint shadow blurred between Valentine and the wall.
*Whats that?* Paul squinted.
*Nothing. Close it.*
*Wheres the girl?*
*In my head, apparently,* Valentine murmured, dropping a large milk chocolate bar on the desk. It vanished into a drawer.
As he turned to leave, a thought struck him. *Paul, waitcheck today, same time.*
They scoured two weeks of footage.
*No one,* Paul concluded.
*Right. Cheersmustve been a glitch,* Valentine said, fighting the adrenaline. That shadow *had* moved toward the ladies. Every Monday, 10:17 sharp. Now, why couldnt he see her again?
*Get a girlfriend, you weirdo,* Paul smirked.
*Already found her. The best.*
Valentine studied the tarnished teaspoon even soda couldnt clean. Heavy, oddly shaped, with worn engravings on the handle. A set passed down for generationseven his grandmother couldnt say how old. Given to him as a boy with solemn warnings of their value, hed treasured them while promptly using one for tea. That spoon was at home. This one hed brought to work a month ago, replacing a lost office spoon. Last Monday, besides the kettle, hed carried it, planning to wash off dried cake from Friday.
Naturally, hed stopped bringing it. And stopped seeing her.
*Thats it.*
The next Monday, spoon clutched in his fist, he lurked in the corridor. When she appeared from the main stairs, his knees nearly buckled. Like before, she passed, made that familiar door-opening motionthough the door itself was now elsewhereand vanished *through* the wall into the toilet.
He swallowed thickly. It worked! He even caught the faint *click* of heels, and her perfume grew strongerthe spoon amplified the “signal.”
What if he brought *all* the spoons?
The result stunned him. As she neared, the past bled into the present: plasterboard melted into dark green velvet with gold trim, linoleum into polished parquet, where now-visible black buckle shoes tapped. *Click. Click. Click.*
New smells teased his nosespiced incense, musky perfume. Distant horse whinnies. Two men murmured in Russian nearby, their slang-laced conversation mostly lost.
And herflawless at first glance, now real. Imperfect skin, powder thick on her cheeks, smudged mascara, a clumsily mended lace collar. Her proud gaze? Just squinting at small wall plaquesshe was nearsighted. Yet these flaws only stoked the fire in his chest.
She vanished. Reality snapped back. Drenched in sweat, legs weak, he panted. One thought pulsed with his heartbeat: *Again.*
Every Monday, he replayed it. Learning her path started at the staircases last stepher apparition point. He walked beside her in this bubble of the past, absorbing details: gas lamps, paintings, eavesdropping on those men ranting about some *Madame Zizi* (he Googled half their slang). Phones couldnt record itonly he saw.
And he fell deeper in love. He stared openly now, tracing her curves, savoring the hypnotic *click* of heels, the glimpse of stockinged ankles as she turned.
He craved more. Touches phased through her, but it felt *close*like tuning a dial slightly would let him feel her, speak to her. *Bloody hell, confess his love!*
His passion-addled brain ignored that she might recoil. Noshed love him instantly. They even looked alike! Lifelong couples always did. Shed leap into his future.
For that final *nudge*, he scavenged artifacts: forks, plates, photosanything pre-20th century. Only the spoons worked.
At his childhood home, sipping tea, his mother swore nothing else remained.
*Unless* She vanished
