It was a Thursday evening match, and the pitch buzzed with its usual mix of shouts, laughter, and the dull thud of the ball against worn leather boots. I'd scored twice, and my teammates clapped me on the back, their smiles genuine — or so I thought.
After the game, I took the side road home, the one that cut through the market square. Most stalls were already closed, their owners gone for the night. But one remained open, lit by a single oil lamp.
The fruit seller was a man in his late forties, with sharp eyes and a thin frame. He sat in a wheelchair, his legs wrapped in faded cloth. His stall was stacked with plantains, oranges, and mangoes, their sweet smell heavy in the air.
"Evening," I greeted as I walked past.
He didn't smile. "You're not from here."
I stopped. "Is it that obvious?"
"Everything about you says you don't belong," he said, his voice even but cold. "Your walk, your eyes… the way you look at things."
I was about to respond when I noticed his gaze shift past me, toward the alley on my left — the same alley where I'd once seen men meeting in the shadows.
"Some places in Willowcreek," he continued, "are better unseen. If you keep looking, one day something will look back."
The words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.
I bought two oranges just to end the conversation, but when I handed him the coins, his fingers brushed mine for a second longer than necessary. His grip was surprisingly firm.
"See you around," he said, and there was something in his tone that wasn't quite a farewell.
That night, as I sat in my room peeling one of the oranges, I realised the man hadn't asked my name. He already knew it.