At Lantern Quay, Tobin liked the evening best, when the round glass lanterns began to glow and the market stalls were being tied shut in neat rows. He checked the ropes with his rope-marked hands, making sure crates sat square and fish baskets did not tip into the mud. The sea breeze brought the smell of salt, tar, and warm bread from the windowsills nearby, and for a moment everything felt properly held together.
Then the fog slid in from the bay.
It came thick and pale, hiding the water first, then the lower pier, then the far lanterns until they looked like dim moons. Tobin paused with a knot half-finished in his hands. From somewhere in the fog, tiny footsteps began to patter. Pat, pat, pat. They circled the pier once, then again, not near the market stalls, not far away either. Each time Tobin turned his head, the sound slipped to another place, as if something small was walking in a ring just out of sight.
He listened harder. The footsteps grew quicker.
A basket near the nearest stall gave a tiny bump, as if something unseen had brushed past it. Tobin straightened slowly and looked toward the market row, where the tied-down cloth flaps stirred in the fog. The sound was no longer just part of the evening. It was moving toward the stalls he was meant to keep in order. Tobin had to decide: wait and listen, follow the circling steps, or call someone closer before the unseen walker reached the market.
What happens next?
Sign in to rate
