Thomas

I’m sitting alone in the darkness that the middle of the night provides. Listening to music, softly, so I do not disturb the neighbors. I am writing now because I see a face from the corner of my eye. It is the face of a man. I will guess, I saw it for barely a moment, that he is in his mid thirties.

A weathered face. Experienced, and looking straight at me.

The house I live in is quite old. I don’t know all the details, but I do know this has been a bakery for about twenty years. It hasn’t been one for a long time now, but the old pictures I found tell me that the big window up front was used to show all the freshly baked goods.

Now in the middle of the night, i guess the only thing you could spot through the window is me, writing this. And still, as I focus on the screen to write I can see him in the corner of my eye, sitting there to my right. I wonder if he just wants my attention. I doubt it. When I turn my head to clearly see if he’s there, he is not.

I must conclude that he does not want a lot of attention now. I’ve been in this situation before. Especially when I was a child, I saw them. They were loud and conspicuous to the trained eye. Flickering with lights and making sounds. This man is different. But still he’s here, I just checked.

Maybe he’s from before. Before this place was a bakery. Maybe he’s from the time when we had a war, but I might be guessing the easy answers. Maybe he’s just one of the people that built this place. That would be a more original guess.

His name is Thomas. I got that just now. Thomas. Father of two. It’s amazing what I get when I open my mind. Focusing on nothing in particular. Father of the one that was left. One of the twins did not survive the birth. Sam survived. His sister did not.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that I’m connecting. Thomas is calm. He has short hair, shaven just few days ago. Or a century ago, but locked in time. He shaved the morning of his last day. He’s wearing a blue button-shirt. He wants me to continue seeing more of him, although I still cannot look at him directly.

I take a deep breath in and I let the air escape my body slowly. Thomas is a patient man. I think I can light a cigarette without him leaving. While I light it, and re-adjust my bracelet, I breathe again. He’s not here to hurt me. I know this now. but the more moments I take to realize what is happening, the more he is fading. So, without speaking I ask: “Your name is Thomas?” Faintly, I hear one knock.

I don’t know Morse code, or anything like that, but in my mind, one means yes and two means no. So I think I have the confirmation. Now. Still only in my mind: “Thomas”. I take a drag of the cigarette. “What do you want me to know?”

I see nothing. I am distracted. Maybe i am too focused on the answer. It’s the middle of the night and I have been focused on what is happening now, but it might have been too much. The smoke that I breathe out fills the room.

It must be over. Thomas was here, but i feel him less now. I can feel he’s not angry. Still I want to believe his presence has meaning, So I speak out loud: “Thomas. I accept all you want to say. But please make it clear. I know you have been leaving signs and messages. But please. Make it clear.” I feel like a fool. Speaking to the darkness.

There’s no apparent answer. Everything is as it was. Then, as I look back to focus on the computer, I hear a soft, but clear scratching. Thomas is there, to my right, barely in my vision. He nods. And as I turn to look at the desk where he was, I see the writing pad has moved.

I grab it. I’m an impatient person, and now something has finally happened. I hold it in my hand and there’s nothing written. But there is an indentation. I hold it up to the light. The marks that have appeared are very clear, although they do not explain this night. There are just two words: “GET OUT”