The Stranger
By ten o’clock, the usual time for tea in the office, Oliver was late, finishing a report on PPE expenditure across production sites. Realising no one had left him any water, he grabbed 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 older part of the building. Behind the modern plasterboard hid walls once painted a dull bureaucratic green, and beneath that, layers of plaster concealed narrow, bright-red bricks. If one were to pry a brick free from its stubborn mortar, they might find the year 1892 stamped into it. Few in this city-centre office block ever thought about its history. But Oliver knew. Once, it had been just two storeys tall. In the 1950s, three more floors were added, and by the 1960s, two wings had been tacked onone of which now housed his office. His mother had told him his great-grandmother, Eleanor, had worked here somewhere. He could only hope it had been in one of the offices or shops, not in the most prestigious brothel in town, *The Imperial*, which had once occupied the very halls he now walked daily.
Filling the kettle, he stepped out of the toilet and
There she was.
A strikingly beautiful woman in a long beige dress strode toward him. Her thick chestnut hair was pinned back in a bun, her shoulders squared with quiet pride, and her serious brown eyes scanned the corridor with sharp attention. It was those eyes Oliver drowned in as he passed her, stumbling and spilling water. For a moment, he stared right at herthen, embarrassed, looked away.
She was nearly level with him now.
*Fine. If she doesnt look away in three seconds, Ill talk to her.* For the first time in his life, Oliver held a strangers gaze with deliberate boldness.
Her face was round with a narrow chin, low brows, a neat little nose, and thin lips. But the woman simply swept past, leaving only the faintest trace of perfume in her wake, and vanished into the ladies toilet.
His stolen breath returned slowly. The feeling of having stepped into a fairytale faded.
*Should I wait for her?* The desperate thought flickered. After lingering a few minutes, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder, he finally shuffled back to his office. No one ever emerged from the toilet.
*Who was she?* he wondered, sitting at his desk, the kettle forgotten. *Maybe the new secretary for the director? Must be. Too beautiful to be anything else. Ill ask ITthey know everything.*
The workday left no room for daydreams. But at lunch, and again when he left that evening, his eyes searched the crowd for a glimpse of that beige dress.
On Tuesday, at ten sharp, Oliver stood by the toilet with an empty kettle. But the woman never appeared. 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 secretary come down to the second floor? Mustve been a fluke. Or maybe she was visiting someone.* The latter thought stungit meant the odds of seeing her again were almost zero. But the first possibility was worth pursuing.
*”Hey,”* he typed to his IT mate, Liam, *”seen the new secretary for the director?”*
*”Yeah. Set up her computer last Monday.”*
Last Monday! His heart hammered.
*”Pretty?”*
*”Course. They dont hire ugly ones. Total ice queen, though. Gave me hell.”*
*”Whats her name?”*
*”Elizabeth Whitmore.”*
*”Got a photo?”*
*”Check her profile in the directoryonly one there.”*
His palms were slick with nerves.
*”Cheers.”* Glancing around as if someone might be watching, he typed *Elizabeth Whitmore* into the search bar. One result. No mistake. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tapped the contactand stared at the photo of a smiling, blue-eyed blonde.
Something inside him snapped.
*Fine. Whatever.* Resigned, he tried to put the stranger out of his mind.
*”So? What dyou think?”* Liam messaged.
*”Alright,”* he replied vaguely. Then an idea struck. *”Hey, youve got access to corridor CCTV, right?”*
*”Yeah. Fancy a live peek?”*
*”Not exactly. Saw a woman last Monday,”* Oliver admitted. *”On our floor. Stunning. Thought she was the new secretary. But it wasnt her. Could you check the footage, see who she was? You know everyone.”*
*”Sure, but laterbusy now.”*
*”Cheers. I owe you chocolate.”*
Waiting for *later* was agony. The woman in beige haunted his thoughts, his pulse quickening with foolish hope. *Pathetic,* he scolded himself, forcing his focus back onto reports.
Finally, Liam messaged: *”Ready.”*
*”When are we checking?”* Liam asked briskly, pulling up the surveillance system.
*”Last Monday, around ten past ten. Came from the main stairs, went into the ladies.”*
*”Right 15th, time here.”* Liam turned a monitor. The camera angle showed the far end of the corridor. Oliver watched himself walk in with the kettle, exit shortly after, then freeze mid-step, staring intently atnothing. The wall. He stood there for minutes, then shuffled away, glancing back repeatedly.
Silence.
Liam raised an eyebrow. *”And?”*
*”Rewind. Where I come out of the toilet.”*
The timestamp read 10:17.
*”Slow it down.”*
The footage stuttered in sluggish frames.
*”Stop!”*
Liam paused it.
Between Oliver and the wall was a faint, shadowy blur.
*”Whats that?”* Liam squinted.
*”Nothing. Forget it.”*
*”Wheres the woman?”*
*”Guess she was just in my head.”* Oliver dropped a large bar of Dairy Milk on the desk, which Liam promptly stashed in a drawer. As he turned to leave, Oliver hesitated. *”Waitstill open? Check today, same time.”*
They scoured every day, including weekends, for two weeks.
*”No one,”* Liam concluded.
*”Right. Cheers anywaymustve been a glitch.”* Oliver fought to keep his voice steady. The shadow *had* been there. Every Monday at 10:17. Now he just had to figure out why he couldnt see her again.
*”Get yourself a real girl, you weirdo,”* Liam chuckled.
*”Already found her. The best one.”*
At home, Oliver studied a tarnished teaspoon that even baking soda couldnt clean. Heavy, oddly shaped, its handle bore a faded crest. The set had been passed down for generationshis grandmother hadnt even known how old they were. As a boy, hed been solemnly entrusted with them, told to cherish and pass them on. Hed taken it seriously, though hed promptly started using one. That spoon was still at home. This one, though, hed brought to work a month ago after a colleague lost hers.
Last Monday, hed had it in his pocket.
And after that? Hed stopped carrying it.
That was it.
Barely able to wait, he stood in the corridor the following Monday, the spoon clutched in his fist. When the woman appeared from the stairs, he swayed on his feet. Just like before, she passed him andwith a practised motionvanished into what mustve once been a door, now just a wall.
His throat tightened. It worked. He could even hear the faint click of her heels, smell her perfumestronger now, as if the spoon amplified it.
*What if I brought all of them?*
The effect was staggering. The past bled into the present as she approached. The plasterboard walls peeled away to reveal dark green wallpaper with gold filigree, the linoleum replaced by polished parquet. The black buckled shoes hed only glimpsed before now tapped clearly*click, click, click.*
Unfamiliar scents filled his noseincense, heavy perfume. Somewhere, a horse whinnied. To his left, two men murmured in English, their slang and idioms half-lost to time.
And the womanshe was different up close. Her skin wasnt flawless: a blemish here, faint freckles there. Powder caked her cheeks, her lipstick was uneven, and her lashes were clumped with old mascara. Dust smudged her dress, mud splattered the hem, and a clumsy stitch marred her lace collar. Her proud gaze? Just nearsighted squinting. Yet these flaws only stoked the fire in his chest.
She disappeared. Reality snapped back. But those few seconds left him drenched and weak-kneed, gasping. One thought pounded with his heartbeat: *Again.*
Every Monday, he watched. He knew her starting point
