Friday night, and the cobbled paths are alive with movement. Plumes of smoke spiral into the distance, mixing with the echoes of raucous laughter and the occasional scream. The walkways buzz with youthful energy, a playfulness that recalls children at daycare. A crimson orb rests before the entrance, casting its glow against black lacquered paint and worn metallic handles. Its light, like a siren, beckons any wayward drunkards or patrons seeking refuge from the darkening night.

Inside, you're met with a wall of alcohol—each bottle a remedy, a potential cure for whatever ailment you carry. A jilted lover? Try a whiskey. Had a long day at work? Let this pint of lager wrap you in its warm embrace, offering solace for the evening.

A strange figure slumps at the front bar. Clad in black, his bowler hat tilts low over his face, obscuring his eyes. His silvering hair is neatly combed back behind the rim of his elongated ears, a subtle marker of his age. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reaches into the pocket of his long overcoat—a crushed velvet cloak, dark as a crow’s wing, its very fibers giving off a faintly unsettling energy.

His hand rests on the blotched, wooden counter. The skin is worn and leathery, fingers thickened with years of labor, stained with yellowish residue at the tip of his index finger. His hand tells a story, each line and scar speaking of long hours and hard work. His fingers are strong, muscled, yet their wear betrays the passage of time.

From the depths of his coat emerges a clenched fist, tightly holding a five-pound note—its edges bent, its corners crumpled and ragged.

He lifts his pint glass, swirling the last dregs of ale inside.

"Another?" I ask, eager to serve.

With a solemn nod, he confirms.

I retrieve a fresh glass and, with a practiced hand, angle it at roughly 45 degrees to begin pumping the bitter from the tap. The wooden handle is stubborn, requiring finesse—a slight twist to the left, a gentle pull to the right. Ale pumps, like the gears of a machine, must be mastered for smooth, swift service.

As the glass fills, I stop just shy of the top, giving the frothy bubbles time to settle. One by one, they quiet, aligning into a perfect, velvet scum. With a final pull, I finish the pour and set the glass before him.

P.S - Would you consider carrying on reading this? Thank you for any feedback.

I see a man,

Amidst the scurried atmosphere,

Move slowly, intently, each step calculated..

As if traversing through a flowing stream,

Or a shrouding fog -

This man moves through air like a leaf through a stream,

Carrying its perpetual flow…

He dresses in shades of grey,

Not sombre, monotonous greys,

But ashen - brushed greys that deliver an air of sophistication,

Of quiet humility.

Upon his head

Rests a flat cap - To match the gentle, almost withdrawn

Tone of his blazer.

Black, fingerless gloves

Reveal leathery skin and

Worn fingertips.

A sterling silver ring resides on the bridge of his finger to the right of his middle.

In his hands,

Upon his lap,

A tattered book,

Whose pages whisper secrets of old.

An ancient, timeless kind of wisdom

Long forgotten.

I wish to read the book,

I want to know of the stories it speaks,

With its straight lines and squiggles etched upon

Its yellow, rugged pages -

Nicotine, coffee-stained pages.

I imagine they were once ivory..

I will never forget the day

I first noticed,

The jagged white lines,

Etched unto the surfaces of your skin.

I was young,

Still in primary school, perhaps…

And in my youthful innocence I asked,

What were they? How did you get them?

And you spun me a story of how you were working in a building,

Whilst leaning upon a glass frame, your arms fell through and with it so did you,

And the shards tore the tissue in your arms

And left you with those permanent scars..

I noticed the glimmer in your eye as you spoke -

The forming of a tear,

Reflecting the bronze glow of the sun as it peered through your windowsill,

Casting rays of gold upon the blank walls and faces..

I will never forget

The way those scars looked through the eyes of a younger self -

The way they danced, like the scales of a koi fish,

Twirling amidst a sea of light,

Silver, shimmering rays,

Like slug trails -

Reminiscent of "kintsugi",

The Japanese art of repairing that which is broken,

With a golden glue,

As to admire the fragile nature

Of things, so beautiful.

Yours were sown silver,

Delicate white threads that spoke of a time you were hurting,

And in pain,

But survived.

They are signs of your victory,

Trails of the trials put through.

I could see that,

I can feel that.

Those silver hues,

You survived.

They say every cloud has a silver lining, and

Yours were sewn into skin.

Trembling fingertips clasp at its plastic sheath, eager to evoke flame. She is completely immersed in rolling her thumb over the jagged, metallic ring embedded at its core.

A flurry of insignificant sparks spew into the darkness, as fragments of light begin to form.

"1... 2..."

She mutters under her breath, struggling to summon the necessary strength for this task.

"3..."

A whirring 'zipping' sounds, followed by fire.

Victory.