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His flat is too warm. Too stuffy. He kicks his shoes off and stalks over to the window while still shrugging the coat down his shoulders. As soon as the window cracks open and fresh, prickly cold air swirls past him, Joe takes a deep breath of relief. He collapses on the bed and carefully unwraps his scarf. The door slams shut in a loud reminder that it is a miracle Joe hasn't been robbed yet. He doesn't dwell on it and peels off the remaining layers until he's only in his underwear and a shirt, then he wraps himself in his covers, shivering at the sensation of his hot skin warming up the cold sheets, and contently watches his shallow breaths turn to puffs of white fog before his eyes.
He curls up into a ball and is overjoyed by the feeling of letting go and easing up every muscle in his body, including his eyelids that slowly cover the world under a thunder blanket. The safety of his cocoon luls him to sleep.
Slumber takes hold of him, waiting until the weakened sun rolls out of view, giving infinite space to dull oranges and pinks that have been playing the role of the night sky all winter. Soft, content energy surges through his veins and Joe wakes up feeling productive again. The clock shows that it’s just after 11pm. He sits at the table in the corner of his room and fishes for something in one of its drawers. He pulls out a leather bound journal that his fingers skim over with hesitation.
Andy gave it to him for his birthday last week. He freed it from a beautiful cyan wrapping paper with a yellow bow and couldn’t hide his surprise upon seeing the empty book.
“This will be thrilling to read,” he scoffed.
“Won’t hurt you to share your thoughts with someone other than me. Shit gets exhausting,” explained Andy. He laughed, but worried that she meant it. She’s been his best friend since he moved here six months ago and the one person he confides in.
Too quickly, the pads of his fingers slide down an empty page and part the book open in front of him.
There, Joe stabs down with his pen to start a new line, finding odd pleasure in the scratching sound the tip of the pen leaves on the heavy paper. He writes:
I dreamt of him again. The man in an alley. He stands there, awfully still, and I feel like he’s waiting for me to approach.
Leaning back, Joe judges his own writing, flipping each word over and back inside of his head. Then he takes his pen and strikes through the sentences.
I dreamt of him again. The man in an alley. He stands there, awfully still, and I feel like he’s waiting for me to approach.
He starts anew:
Another not so great day. I need a vacation. The work is plenty and the staff is few. I promised to take the extra shift. I don’t really want to go to work tomorrow.
Once again, Joe frowns at the words he’s written. With a huff, he looks out of the window, feeling dismay once his eyes cannot find a single star.
It's been months since he’s been in a true darkness; a space of wonder and imagination and calmness. Ever since he was a child, Joe's loved the night and shadowy corners of his room. He’s never been scared - he’s felt that the stars and the moonlight had been guiding him to another adventure every time he walked the house at midnight, trying to map it only by his touch on the walls and kitchen counters. But there are no stars in the city, there is never true darkness, no matter how much he invests in drapes or blinds.
He closes his eyes and wishes for a true night; a night that would bathe everything in pale starshine and grant him a moment of peace. Maybe he would forget about his nightmares, as well. About the man who doesn’t let him sleep.
I wish to see a starry night sky.
The pen stabs into the paper to write the period and is then settled in between the pages as Joe stands up. Within a minute, he’s dressed in his joggers and throwing on a blue athletic shirt. Another sixty seconds later, he’s bouncing down the stairs to his building’s front door.
Joe has been going out for a run almost every night - the closest thing to a nightly adventure he can have in the city. It’s become such a routine that he’s fantasised some local thugs might have memorised his route and are waiting in every dark corner for the opportunity to mug him. Or worse - someone is waiting for him to leave his apartment to go and strip it clean. Not that Joe’s possessions are of any high value, but it is still at the very least unpleasant to think about.
He runs through his complex’s courtyard and out onto the street, setting into a nice light pace as he makes his way down the avenue. Thankfully, Joe’s apartment is on the outskirts of the city - far enough from the city centre to escape the ever-present buzz of every day’s night life. It rained just a few hours back and the roads and sidewalks are still wet, reflecting the streetlamps’s cones of light, the businesses’ neon signs and the brake lights of the occasional car driving past, making them all fuzzy. The unoriginality of the surrounding resident buildings is occasionally broken by randomly scattered warm lit windows, laying the stage for silhouettes that dance and talk like in a shadow puppeteer play. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking, and Joe fights the urge to go and find it, steal it from someone’s yard and befriend it - a companion for nights like these. He would return it after the run, he rationalises with himself, but ultimately decides against the idea.
The climax of his usual route is a small hill just behind the college campus that offers a beautiful view while remaining rationally steep. Joe counts his breaths and makes sure to time them evenly as he starts making his way up the hill, arriving at his usual spot barely out of breath - in perfect condition to have his breath taken away by the view itself: the colourful collage of city lights laid out before him is crowned by a perfectly dark sky donned in hundreds of stars. As if the lights from street lamps and traffic were too dense to ascend any further, they embrace the city like a fog of glow; a perfectly contained fuzzy bubble around which a true night has fallen. Joe stares at the stars agape, feeling irrational glee at the sight of the tiny pinhead sized spots all around him. He notices he’s casting a shadow and looks above him to see the full disc of a moon shining brighter than the sun did that day.
It is the most natural thing to break into a smile, then a laugh. Like a blanket, Joe feels the nostalgia settling in, and he revels in it, wrapping it around himself as tight as possible. He leans against the picnic table nearby and lies down on it, not minding the cold wood stinging him even through clothes. There is the Orion, and there is Canis Major, he thinks, outlining them in the air with his finger. Content, he folds his arms under his head and rests. For a moment, his head feels empty.
On his way back home, Joe takes his usual shortcut through his neighbourhood. When he passes the alley in between an old pawnshop and a café, he sees movement in the corner of his eye. He walks backwards and looks into the alley, seeing a figure standing in the distance, backlit by a streetlamp from the other side. He feels rooted to the ground all of a sudden. The blood in his veins stops flowing. Then he blinks, and the figure is gone. He shakes his head and takes a few wary steps into the alley, looking around only to find no trace of anyone. He resumes running, picking up his pace ever so slightly.
Back at home, after the usual shower and a midnight dinner, Joe slumps back into bed. He drifts off into a dreamless sleep within seconds.
During work, nothing seems to go right. Customers are more and more nervous with each passing day - it’s the impending Christmas, says Nile. Then Booker goes home after getting sick, leaving Joe and Nile to close the shop on their own. The awfully short daylight is already disappearing behind the tall windows when Joe goes to refill the shelves with folded jeans while Nile mans the register.
She finishes a transaction and groans as soon as the customer is out of earshot. “Man, how is it already dusk again? I swear, I wake up at night and I go home at night, too. Where has my day gone? This ain’t worth it.”
Joe chuckles. “It really isn’t. And to think we’re still open for one more hour.”
She dramatically flaunts herself on top of the register. “Fuck this, Joe. Let’s just leave.”
“We can’t do that, I’m afraid,” he sighs, “You know - bills and whatnot.”
“I know, I know,” she stands back up straight, “And to think I wanted to ask Booker to let me leave early today.”
“Somewhere you gotta be?”
“Osa didn’t come home last night.”
Joe stops folding the jeans and his full attention is on Nile. “How so?”
She frowns and hugs herself. “I have no idea. She always comes for dinner but her bowl was still full this morning and - and I know this sounds weird - I checked her bed and it wasn’t warm or anything so she probably didn’t sleep at home either. I passed out watching TV and thought she might’ve slipped past me but-”
“So you want to look for her?” asked Joe, already standing by her side.
Nile shamefully nods. “I know it’s not even technically my cat.”
“No, she’s yours. She was yours the moment she walked through the cat door you installed for ‘not your cat’.” He adds in air quotes and Nile cracks a smile. “But you shouldn’t stalk through the streets at night, Nile.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll get home and she will already be there, scratching my couch instead of the scratch post like usual.”
For a moment, Joe hesitates about what to say. He gives Nile a reassuring pat on the shoulder to gain more time. “Exactly. Cats are adventurers, Nile. She’ll come back home.”
“Thanks,” Nile smiles and takes Joe’s hand, “You’re right. How about your night, anyway?”
Joe gives her a coy smile. “Oh, the usual. Got home, cooked, and slept.”
“Sounds awfully boring,” she remarks and pokes Joe on the chest.
He recoils harder than he needs to. “Well, thank you, Nile. How kind.”
Back in his apartment, Joe throws his bag down his shoulders and collapses in his chair. There is really no chance of a day off before Christmas day and he’s been at work every day for the last month, and he’s starting to feel it. One glance at his bed very nearly topples him over so he can go straight to sleep, but he resists. Almost not by his own accord, Joe picks up the notebook that is still lying on his table from last night. He reads the words he wrote and smiles once more, taking his pen.
Thank you for granting my wish.
He chuckles once more to himself, shakes his head, and strikes through the words:
Thank you for granting my wish.
Then keeps writing:
Today was even worse than yesterday. Our manager got sick, so we had to close by ourselves. I should’ve been home two hours ago. And Nile’s cat is lost. I wish I could help her find her.
Taking a moment to read his words, Joe feels oddly supported by the willingness of his journal to listen to his thoughts, so he continues:
I wish I could tell someone, but I guess writing is okay, too. I feel dreadful most of the time, ever since I moved here after the accident. I still don’t remember anything. I’ve been having nightmares and I do not know what to do with myself to make them go away. They’re all the same now - this man standing before me, waiting. I’ve stopped telling Andy because I do not want her to worry.
Frowning, Joe puts the pen down and stands up. Fueled by a need to escape, he goes and dresses for his evening run.
The cold air stretches his lungs, pushing his heart to pick up pace and pump blood through his limbs, warming him up with every step. It feels better to move; to run; to feel cold and hot at the same time. He practically sprints up the hill to his usual spot. The view is the same as he knows it, except for the dark sky from last night. The stars have disappeared, clouded once more in toxic vapours of artificial light. What was yesterday serene darkness is today a pink and purple gradient that stretches as far as Joe can see. He growls and doesn’t linger on the hill top, turning to run back home right away. It’s again in the alley in between the pawnshop and the café that he sees movement in the corner of his eye. With chills running down his spine, Joe backtracks and peeks inside the alley.
“Is anyone there?” he calls, immediately wondering whether a mugger would answer a call like that. He takes a cautious step forward. “Hello?”
A meow. Joe stills, then starts looking around in an attempt to locate the sound. “Osa?” He internally scolds himself for thinking it would be her: Nile lives on the other side of the city, there is no way her cat would wander so far away. But the meowing gets louder and Joe searches for the culprit. He finds the source of the meowing hiding in a soaked box next to a garbage bin, looking up at him with two huge yellow eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Osa. It is you.” He recognizes the black spot on her left ear from pictures Nile’s shown him on her phone. With shaky hands, Joe scoops the big kitten into his arms. She goes willingly and starts purring right away.
Dumbfounded, Joe takes Osa home and watches as she makes biscuits on top of his pillow while texting Nile that he found her. She is overjoyed when she comes to pick her up, even kisses Joe on the cheek. He watches her cab leave and waits until the brake lights are no longer visible before returning to his apartment. Like without a soul, he sits on his bed, staring at the journal on his table.
The nightmare visits him that night. He is standing in an alley similar to the one he found Osa in, and there is a man standing on the other side. Clad in a torn tunic that reaches his knees, his head is hung low so he can’t see his face.
“What’s happening?” calls Joe, looking around himself. “Today’s been weird enough. I don’t need this! Wake up, Joe. Come on!”
He tries pinching himself but nothing happens. The silhouette of the man before him suddenly moves, his hand reaching to his waist.
Joe yells: “Hey, don’t move! I want out of here!”
A flash of light blinds him momentarily, he sees it’s the shine of a blade - the man has pulled out a large sword. Joe stumbles backwards and finds a wall behind himself. The man takes a step towards him.
Joe wakes up soaked in sweat. He pants and crawls out of bed to lie on the cold floor, trying to root himself back in reality.
He struggles through the work day in a trance, wondering whether his journal could have anything to do with Osa’s sudden appearance, or with the man he keeps seeing in his nightmares. Back at his apartment, Joe warily takes hold of the journal, inspecting it as if a card should fall out from the pages with the text “Caution. Grants wishes.” He takes his phone and finds Andy’s number but decides against it after hovering his thumb over the call button for a few seconds. She’s dealt with his existential drama for too long already, he thinks.
Decidedly, Joe takes the pen and writes into the journal:
I wish that my nightmares would stop.
He then shuts the journal and throws the pen down. For a moment, he debates whether he could be crazy, then finds the question too unbearable. He wants to run. A voice in his head tells him to change his usual route - to challenge this odd phenomenon - but Joe doesn’t. He runs up to the hill. He runs back and takes the shortcut. He slows down to a walk as he approaches the pawnshop but doesn’t dare to look into the alleyway as he’s passing it. Only out of the corner of his eyes, he notices movement. He stops. Something bubbles inside of him, erupting in rage as he turns the corner back to the alley.
“Leave me alone!”
It’s empty. Joe stares at the grey walls and the street on the other side, breathing heavily, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He even turns around to make sure he didn’t miss the figure somehow. It’s not there. Slowly, Joe turns to go back to the sidewalk when he bumps into someone.
“Sorry! Awfully sorry!” says the man.
Joe backs off with hands raised before him in apology. “No, no, I’m sorry.”
“I heard someone scream so I thought-”
“Oh. No, that was me. I… I screamed.” Joe tries to fight the blood rushing to his face but finds that he’s already lost when he takes a good look at the man he’s just bumped into. His wide frame could be imposing were it not for his kind eyes and a shy smile. His face is stupidly beautiful. You don’t just bump into people like this everyday, Joe thinks, trying to make sense of the tingling feeling taking hold of him all over. A smile appears on his face on accident.
“You… screamed?” repeats the man with another nervous smile. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Joe ducks his head in between his shoulders “Yes. Yes, I am. Sorry. I thought I saw someone, but I didn’t. I realise how weird that sounds now.”
The man’s face turns serious. “Not at all. Alleyways are scary at night.”
“Yeah. Nightmare material.”
They both chuckle and Joe soon realises that they are not talking anymore, just looking at each other in a suspiciously comfortable silence.
“I’m Nicky,” says the man and offers his big hand for a shake.
He takes it immediately. “I’m Joe.”