At Dawn
The first rays of sunlight swept away the fog like wind sweeps leaves. They illuminated a town forgotten by time: wooden facades rotted by dampness, cobblestone streets where weeds sprouted from the cracks, and rusted neon signs reading "Jenson Hardware" or "Dixie Café."
The smell of damp earth, saltpetre, and broken promises flooded the streets.
From the hill rose a house. Its roof sagged under the weight of years of abandonment and silent changes: windows boarded up, shadows that seemed to move behind the grimy glass.
The House
The house was an open wound in the landscape. Peeling paint in... what color? Green? Or gray? A porch that groaned under the weight of footsteps, and windows like eyes blinded by dust. Inside, the air was thick, cold, and smelled of dust, mildew...
In the kitchen, a portable gas stove struggled to work. On it, an enamel pot with chipped paint heated rainwater. He poured the boiling water over a strainer full of recycled coffee grounds. The bitter aroma spread like a fragile spell against the decay.
Sitting on a wobbly chair, at a table with legs wedged by brick fragments, he sipped the coffee. The heat burned his tongue, but he was grateful; it helped him endure the cold. As he stirred the lumpy oatmeal, his eyes settled on the crack in the plaster that snaked across the wall as if mirroring his mind.
"We found you dumped on the Old Highway, right where the Fog starts eating the asphalt," old Marlowe had told him on the first day, handing him a dirty blanket. "You had no ID. No wallet. Just those soaked clothes..."
He remembered how the neighbors watched him from behind parted curtains. Whispers like cockroaches: [Implied gossip, left untranslated as per original]. But old Marlowe, owner of the Bit of Everything Store, had thrown him a lifeline:
"The Henderson house has been empty for years. No one will bother you there... if you dare to stay." A pause, spitting tobacco on the ground. "And if you want to earn your keep, sweep the store, unload boxes. I'll pay you in food and supplies."
The Routine
Now, every morning he walked to the store. He passed the Dry Fountain—a stone basin filled with trash and stagnant water—, dodged the Public Phone hanging like a hanged man, and gave a curt nod to Mrs. Greta, who sold chicken eggs.
The Bit of Everything Store was chaos: half-empty shelves with dented cans, some rusted tools, batteries, and toys from another decade. A boxy television, always on.
"A shipment of flour arrives today," Marlowe bellowed from behind the counter, cleaning a shotgun. "And keep an eye on the mill boys. They come to steal candy. That's your job today, Murphy."
Since he had no name, Marlowe decided to call him Murphy, "-at least until I remember my real name-".
He nodded. His job was simple: organize the items, discourage the curious with his presence, and note down missing stock and IOUs in an old notebook. Sometimes, while stacking soup cans, he felt the wind caressing the windowpanes.
Once the day was over, he headed back to the ramshackle house, though on his way he found some discarded wooden crates and decided to take them.
Back in the abandoned house as dusk fell, he opened the nightstand drawer. Inside, three objects:
A Swiss Army knife with two broken blades.
A Suny Walkman without batteries.
A burned photograph.
He touched them one by one, hoping for a flash, a name, a face.
Outside, the Fog grew thick, gnawing at the edges of the town. He turned on his flashlight—a weak beam that barely pierced the mist—and murmured:
"I'd better get to sleep."