The Mysterious Stranger

**Diary Entry**

By the time the morning tea break rolled around at ten oclock sharp, I was still finishing up the PPE expenditure report for the factory sites. Of course, no one had left me any water in the kettle, so I grabbed it and headed to the loo.

The old floorboards creaked faintly beneath layers of linoleum and laminatethis was the original part of the building. Behind the modern drywall and fresh paint lay walls from another era, and beneath that, narrow red bricks stamped with the year 1892. Most of the office workers in this city-centre building never spared a thought for its history. But I knew. Once, it had only been two storeys tall. In the fifties, they added three more floors, and by the sixties, it sprouted two wingsone of which now housed my office. My mum once told me my great-grandmother, Beatrice (she couldnt remember her maiden name), had worked here somewhere. I desperately hoped it had been in one of the offices or shopsnot in the once-prestigious brothel, *The Imperial*, which had occupied the very corridor I walked every day.

After filling the kettle, I stepped out and

There she was. A striking young woman in a long beige dress strode toward me. Her thick chestnut hair was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, her shoulders squared, her serious brown eyes scanning the hallway. And in those eyes, I drowned. I stumbled, splashing water everywhere, my gaze locked on her until embarrassment forced me to look away.

She was nearly beside me now.

*Go on, then. If she doesnt look away in three seconds, youll say something.* For the first time in my life, I dared to hold a strangers stare.

Round face, narrow chin, low brows, a delicate nose, thin lips.

But she swept past me without a glance, the faintest trace of perfume lingering as she vanished into the ladies.

It took me a moment to catch my breath. The magic of the encounter faded.

*Should I wait for her?* I hovered for a minute, glancing over my shoulder, before shuffling back to my desk. No one ever came out.

*Who was she?* I wondered, forgetting to switch the kettle on. *Probably the new secretary for the directormust be. Too beautiful for anything else. Ill ask the IT ladsthey know everyone.*

Work swallowed the day, leaving no room for daydreams. But at lunch and again in the evening, I searched the crowds for that beige dress.

By Tuesday, at ten sharp, I was back by the toilets, empty kettle in hand. She never appeared. Not Wednesday either. Or Thursday.

Desperate, I stood near the exit all through lunchbut she never left the building.

*Why would the directors secretary even come down to the second floor? Mustve been a fluke. Or maybe she was visiting someone.* The second thought stungit meant Id never see those eyes again.

I messaged Paul from IT: *Seen the new secretary for the director?*

*Yeah, set up her computer last Monday.*

Last Monday! My pulse jumped.

*Pretty?*

*Obviously. They dont hire plain ones. Proper ice queen, though. Knows her worth.*

*Name?*

*Eleanor Whitmore.*

*Got a photo?*

*Check the staff directoryonly one there.*

My hands were slick with sweat as I typed her name. One result. I braced myself and clicked.

A smiling blonde with grey eyes stared back.

Something inside me snapped.

*Fine.* I forced myself to forget her.

Paul messaged again: *So?*

*Shes alright.* Then an idea struck. *Youve got access to corridor CCTV, yeah?*

*Yeah. Want a live look?*

*No. I saw a girl last Mondaystunning. Thought it was her. Can you check who it was?*

*Later. Busy now.*

Waiting was agony. That beige dress haunted me. *Pathetic*, I scolded myself, forcing my focus back to spreadsheets.

Finally, Paul called me over.

*Last Monday, around ten-fifteen. Walking toward the ladies from the main stairs.*

He pulled up the footage. There I was, kettle in hand, entering the gents, then exiting. Walking, stumblingthen freezing, staring at the empty wall. Standing there. Glancing back. Leaving.

Paul raised an eyebrow. *Well?*

*Rewind. When I come out.*

The timestamp read 10:17.

*Slow it down.*

The footage stuttered frame by frame.

*Stop.*

Between me and the wall, a faint shadow flickered.

*Whats that?* Paul squinted.

*Nothing. Close it.*

*Wheres the girl?*

*In my head, apparently.* I tossed him a Dairy Milk and left, heart pounding. That shadow *had* moved toward the ladies. Every Monday, at 10:17.

I just had to figure out why I couldnt see her again.

*Get a girlfriend, you nutter,* Paul called after me.

*Found the perfect one already.*

The tarnished teaspoon in my hand had resisted even baking soda. Heavy, oddly shaped, with faint engravings on the handle. Passed down through generationseven Gran didnt know how old they were. Id been entrusted with the set as a boy, solemnly instructed to preserve them for my own children. Id taken it seriously, though Id used one daily. That one was at home. This particular spoon had been a temporary replacement for a lost office teaspoonuntil last Monday, when Id carried it in my pocket to scrape off dried cake.

And that was the day Id seen *her*.

I hadnt brought it since. And I hadnt seen her since.

That was it.

Next Monday, spoon clenched in my fist, I waited. The moment she stepped into view, my knees nearly buckled. Just like before, she glided past me andvanished through the wall where the ladies door once stood.

My mouth went dry. It worked. I could even hear the faint *click* of her heels, smell her perfume stronger than beforethe spoon amplified it.

*What if I used more?*

The result was beyond anything Id imagined. The past bled into the present as she approached. The drywall peeled away, revealing dark green flocked wallpaper with gold trim. Linoleum became polished parquet, her black buckle shoes now visible with every step. *Click. Click. Click.*

Unfamiliar scents filled the airoriental incense, heavy perfume. A distant whinny. Two men murmured in thick accents, their slang lost on me.

And *her*. Up close, her skin wasnt flawlessfreckles, a blemish or two, powder caked too thick. Mascara flaked from her lashes, her dress was dusty, the lace collar clumsily mended. That proud gaze? Just her squinting at the wall plaques.

Yet every flaw only made her more realmore *mine*.

Then she was gone. Reality snapped back. I stood there, sweating, legs shaking, breath ragged. One thought pounded in time with my heart: *Again.*

Every Monday, I watched the ritual. Knew her path by heart. Walked beside her in that bubble of the past, drinking in every detail. The paintings. The gas lamps. The mens lewd gossip about some Madame Cécile. (I had to Google half their words.)

And I fell deeper in love.

I wanted to *touch* her. My hands passed throughbut it felt *close*. One tweak, and Id feel her. Talk to her. *Love her.*

In my fevered mind, of course shed love me back. We were *meant* to be.

I scavenged relicsforks, books, photographsbut only the spoons worked.

Then Mum handed me a slim book in a homemade cover.

*Great-Grandmas geography primer. 1912.*

The moment I touched it, I *knew*.

***

At 10 a.m., my boss appeared.

*I need the stationery report by two.*

*Sure thing, Mr. Harris,* I said absently.

This was it. As she neared, the floor dissolved beneath mesolid parquet now. The past enveloped me. And this time, *she saw me too*.