Haustus, page 3
“What is it, Kaylie?” I asked between laughs, shifting upright on the bed.
“Tell her, babe! Tell her what you told me,” she urged, giving Jacob a playful nudge and looking at him with those bright eyes that could never hide a thing.
Jacob chuckled in that resigned, fond way of his. He pressed a slow, unhurried kiss to her cheek. The way he looked at her—like she was the only woman on Earth—carried a tenderness that reached deeper than I expected.
“Well, Sarah,” Jacob began, smiling softly, “I was telling Kay that I was given two tickets to an art exhibition at the museum in a couple of weeks—through work. I thought it might be a nice opportunity for you two to go out and spend some time together.”
“You’re going to love it!” Kaylie interrupted, clutching her hands to her chest. “It’s elegant, huge, everything you enjoy. Old paintings, modern art, the strangest sculptures. And… well, there are also some very handsome men,” she added with that mischievous smile I knew all too well.
There it was—the real motivation of my dear sister.
“Kaylie… you know I’m hopeless at flirting with men,” I said, covering my face with both hands, dying of embarrassment.
Jacob laughed openly this time, leaning against the doorframe like he was enjoying watching our dynamic play out.
“Sarah,” Kaylie said, sitting beside me, “you don’t have to flirt. Just go, look at art, breathe in a little beauty. Maybe have a glass of white wine in an incredible museum. And if, by accident, you happen to bump into a man who looks like a Renaissance god, well… you welcome the experience, right?”
I bit my lower lip, holding back a laugh.
“I don’t know. I’m not promising anything.”
“Just promise you’ll go,” she said, raising a brow.
I looked at her. There was no way to say no—not with that face, not with that love spilling out in every gesture, every detail.
“Fine. I’ll go.”
Chapter Seven
A week in London and I’d already learned a few things.
For one, the sun here is basically an urban legend—everyone’s heard of it, some even claim to have seen it, but most live under a permanent contract of cloud cover. Rain, on the other hand, is the faithful companion, the one that never fails. Drizzle, downpour, sky’s sorrow—call it what you want, it’s there every day, greeting you with the persistence of a nosy neighbor.
I’d also learned that what would be considered borderline alcoholism in the U.S. is, in this city, regarded as a cultural pastime—almost an art form. Drinking here isn’t just drinking; it’s coping with life, finding humor in routine. It’s a ceremony after work—or before—a socially acceptable excuse to talk to strangers, or to forget for a little while that the sky never really clears.
In the meantime, you walk under the rain pretending you don’t mind getting soaked, because deep down, maybe that’s the most honest way to belong.
So, with the gray sky as my permanent backdrop and my umbrella reduced to a useless prop—because here, rain seeps in from wherever it pleases—I decided to explore the city on my own. My sister was on a morning shift at the hospital, juggling patients, syringes, and doctors with god complexes, while I wandered through streets I still couldn’t pronounce properly.
I walked aimlessly longer than I realized, letting myself be pulled along by architecture that looked like it belonged in an old, elegant book—the kind that smells faintly of damp and secrets. That’s when I spotted a narrow alley, a rusted sign hanging crooked above a black door. Most people would have kept walking. I didn’t—of course not. Maybe it was the name in looping script, or maybe it was the way it seemed to invite no one in. Whatever it was, I went inside.
The warmth inside wasn’t the modern kind of a café with air conditioning and an indie pop playlist—it was an old, almost tangible warmth, as if the walls had absorbed every conversation ever spoken there. The lights were low and golden. Wood was everywhere: the floor creaked, the tables were carved with strangers’ initials, and the bar looked like it had witnessed more confessions than a priest.
I approached with that casual air you put on when you have no idea what to order. The bartender—a man with an unkempt beard and eyes that looked like they’d seen everything—greeted me with a small nod.
“What can I get you?” he asked, his British accent so thick even tea would have sounded different coming from his mouth.
He wasn’t a Londoner—you could tell. There was something northern in his voice, or maybe just from another time. He was kind, but the kind of kindness steeped in resignation. Functional melancholy. Like a man who’d made peace with living alongside a quiet disappointment, yet still showed up for work every day.
I placed him somewhere between fifty and sixty. His face was lined—not so much with years as with long nights. His hands were large, worn, and the way he dried a glass felt more like a mechanical ritual than actual cleaning.
He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling either. The sort of man who probably had been born inside a bar like this, who knew every patron’s story without remembering a single name, who poured drinks not to cheer you up, but to help you keep enduring.
And there I was—an outsider, soaked through, alone—standing in front of him.
“I feel like it’s a little too early for a drink… don’t you think?” I said, pairing the words with a small, self-conscious smile, the kind that comes somewhere between embarrassment and wanting to seem like you belong.
He studied me for a couple of seconds, as if deciding whether I was the kind who regrets it after the second glass or the kind who doesn’t need an excuse to start early. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth curved. It was so quick and subtle it could have been mistaken for a twitch—but it was there.
“Well, walking into a bar doesn’t seem like the smartest choice, miss,” he replied in a tone that, far from arrogant, reminded me of a grandfather’s gentle scolding when his granddaughter eats all the chocolate and then complains of a stomachache.
His gaze was rough, but not sharp. There was nothing performative about him, just a man getting through the day with the least amount of nonsense possible.
“That accent’s not from around here… American, right?”
I nodded, wearing that mix of sweetness and awkwardness that always betrays me in conversations with strangers. Truthfully, I’d never been good at talking to people I didn’t know. Back home, not even on my best days would you find me walking into a place alone and striking up a conversation with whoever worked there. In the U.S., life is all about productivity: you go in, you get things done, you rush home, and you shut the door, as if human interaction were an unnecessary risk.
But here… here it seemed like conversation was part of the job description. Like coffee wasn’t served without a bit of small talk, like a bar couldn’t exist without the little stories exchanged between one glass and the next. London was teaching me that sometimes, wasting time with someone is the most honest way to spend it.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, half laughing, half wishing the floor would open up and swallow me, taking my accent and foreign awkwardness with it.
“Well… let’s just say yes,” he answered with that unfiltered British frankness that doesn’t bother dressing itself up as politeness. “Your accent gives you away,” he added, setting the glass down on a rag that looked older than me. “And that moral high ground about not drinking in the morning… that screams outsider. I’ve always wondered how you people survive without a beer to start the day.”
He shrugged, as if delivering a universal truth.
“Here, a morning beer isn’t a problem. It’s preventative medicine. Cures the routine, softens the weather, and makes you more tolerable to the rest of the world.”
I laughed—not so much at the joke, but at the conviction in his voice, as if he truly believed beer worked better than coffee or therapy.
He regarded me again, this time with curiosity that felt a little less mechanical.
“Besides, you’re not rushing from work, and you’re not waiting for anyone. You walk alone, you look around a lot, you stop in places like this… that stands out too.”
I shifted in my seat, caught off guard by how accurately he’d read me. I wasn’t used to someone seeing that much in so little time. Back home, people barely looked you in the eye when asking for the time.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
He smiled faintly—the kind of smile that doesn’t try to charm, just confirms what it already knows.
“It means you’re looking for something. Or running from something. Sometimes, it’s the same thing.”
His words hung between us like steam in the warm air of the bar. For a second, I thought about answering. But I didn’t.
“You seem like a sweet girl,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence like someone tossing a warning into the wind rather than speaking to a person. “Just be careful. Not everything here is what it seems.”
I blinked at him, caught somewhere between confusion and intrigue.
“Here… do you mean London? Or this bar in particular?”
“Both,” he replied without hesitation, lowering his gaze to rinse another glass, slow and deliberate, as if the answers were at the bottom of the crystal. “This city has many faces, and not all of them smile. Some invite you in with charm, offer you shelter… and then strip your soul without you even realizing it.”
I stayed silent. There was nothing theatrical in his tone, nothing exaggerated. It wasn’t the kind of warning meant to make him sound interesting.
“And how do you know I’m sweet?” I asked, half joking, half serious, trying to break the damp tension that had settled over me.
The bartender let out a short, almost dry laugh—but a real one.
“Because you walked in here like someone who’s not sure if she can… or if she should.”
This time, I studied him a little more closely. It was strange. I didn’t know his name, he didn’t know mine, and yet I felt like he’d already learned more about me than I was entirely comfortable admitting.
“And you?” I asked, my curiosity genuine. “Have you always worked here?”
He shook his head, still focused on the glasses.
“I’ve worked in many places. But this one… this one chose me.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded, letting the silence return—this time without discomfort.
Chapter Eight
Hours later—still sitting in the same spot because, honestly, I had nowhere else to go—I kept talking with the bartender. His name, I learned between sips of a tea he’d made “the English way” but with a touch of American compassion, was Peter. He was sixty-two, though his voice sounded older and his eyes younger. A strange blend of worn-out man and sharp, alert spirit.
Between stories about the city, he spoke of the old London with a kind of nostalgia you don’t find in history books. He told me that, years ago, back when he still believed in luck, he met the Queen of England at a private ceremony he’d been invited to completely by accident—or by fate, as he put it.
“Don’t ask me how I ended up there. I never figured it out myself,” he said with a smile. “But it was one of those days that makes you think maybe someone, somewhere up there, was bored and decided to gift you a strange little memory.”
He also told me he’d been married once. His voice shifted slightly when he mentioned his wife. He didn’t exactly sound sad, but the words seemed heavier in his mouth.
“She died many years ago. She was stronger than me. Smarter, too. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d probably have ended up somewhere I’d rather not remember.”
Then he mentioned he had a daughter. He said it almost in passing, as if out of obligation—more like sharing a fact than a piece of his soul. But of course, I’m the kind of person who can’t let curiosity go unanswered, so I asked.
“And your daughter? Does she live in London too?”
The question had been light when it left my mouth, but it turned heavy the moment I saw him tense. His hands, which had been moving fluidly between bottles and glasses all evening, went still. His gaze, which usually flicked between me and the bar, fixed on the wood of the counter as if there were something written there only he could read.
“Let’s not talk about that,” he said quietly, but firmly. There was no anger, just a wall that went up all at once—silent, invisible, absolute.
I wanted to smooth over the moment, change the subject gracefully, but the silence that followed made it clear I’d crossed into forbidden territory. I tried a smile, a casual remark… nothing worked. Peter wasn’t the kind of man who opened up easily, and clearly, his daughter was a wound he wasn’t willing to expose to a stranger—no matter how lonely or American she was.
Still, I didn’t feel shut out. It was strange. His refusal wasn’t cruel—it was… protective. As if keeping that silence was his way of guarding something.
So I didn’t push. I just nodded with a quiet “All right” and lowered my gaze to my now-empty cup. He refilled it without a word. And we stayed there, in a silence that—oddly enough—felt a lot like a shy form of trust.
And just when I thought the subject had died there, without warning, he murmured something. He didn’t look at me when he said it. It was more for himself than for me, as if the words had slipped out by accident:
“Some things don’t ever really die, you know? They stay. Like shadows that make no sound, but follow you… even in your sleep.”
I looked at him again, but his face was already focused back on his work, as though he’d never spoken. He didn’t seem to expect an answer. Or to offer an explanation.
Part of me wanted to ask what he meant. Another part knew better.
So I stayed quiet. Because in that moment, I understood something—Peter was a man with locked rooms inside him, doors he would never open. And for some reason, I had just caught a glimpse through one of them… even if I couldn’t see what was inside.
By the time I finally stood to leave, the clock above the bar read an hour when, back in my city, people would already be home watching a show they didn’t even like, swearing that tomorrow they’d go to bed early.
But here, in this forgotten corner of London, I was walking out of a bar without having touched a drop of anything stronger than tea. A small victory, considering my emotional track record these past few weeks.
“Thanks for the tea. And the conversation.”
Peter gave a slight nod without lifting his eyes. His hands kept working at a glass that had been spotless for a while, as if he needed something to move while he stayed still.
I turned to go, and just then, a strange tug pulled at my chest. The kind of feeling that makes you frown inwardly without knowing exactly why. I paused for just a second before stepping outside, as if the air itself was telling me: wait.
And then I saw it.
A note, neatly folded, sitting beneath my empty cup. It hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had. Maybe I’d just missed it. Either way, it looked placed with intention—neither too hidden nor too obvious. Like Peter himself.
I unfolded it, expecting something silly, maybe a philosophical quote or some British saying I wouldn’t fully understand.
But no. What it said was simple. And disturbingly strange.
“Not all monsters have fangs. Some walk in daylight.”
I stared at it. Blinked. Read it again.
Excuse me? Was this a warning? A poem? A dark metaphor? A veiled hint? A bad line from some gothic novel?
My brain defaulted to its favorite defense mechanism: sarcasm.
“How uplifting,” I muttered. “First free tea, then existential horror philosophy. If this isn’t customer service, I don’t know what is.”
I glanced toward the bar, but Peter had already vanished into the back room. Of course. Nothing like leaving a stranger with a line straight out of Stephen King and disappearing into the shadows.
I kept the note. I don’t know why. Maybe curiosity. Maybe that stupid impulse to hold on to the strange when all the normal had already stopped making sense.
I slipped the paper into my coat pocket and stepped out into the street. It was raining. Because, of course—London.
I walked back toward my sister’s apartment, hands deep in my pockets, my mind looping over thoughts I hadn’t asked for. I felt… what? Confused? Tired?
Maybe I was just exhausted. Maybe Peter’s accent had hypnotized me and now everything felt more dramatic than it really was. Maybe I just needed a good meal. Or a new life.
I shook my head and kept walking. I didn’t think about the note again.
Surely, without meaning to, Peter had just been drunk.
Chapter Nine
“What are you going to wear?” Kaylie asked, eyes gleaming with excitement as she flung open the doors of my wardrobe like she was hunting for the perfect dress for a Paris runway. “Something appropriately elegant but sexy, right?” she added under her breath, running her fingers over my pitifully small collection of clothes, as if she truly expected to find a hidden gem among my wrinkled sweaters and black T-shirts.
I shrugged from the bed, still wrapped in my blanket like it was a shell.
To my own surprise—and slight pride—on the day I’d arrived in London, I’d unpacked everything and arranged it with almost military precision. Every item hung up, every shoe lined in place. I guess part of me believed that if I was starting a new life in a new country, the least I could do was pretend to be a more functional version of myself. One who, for instance, didn’t live with mountains of clothes on the floor.
“Kaylie, I have no idea. And the museum…” I said, dragging my words with the sour tone of someone who’d slept little and thought too much, “is in eight hours. Eight! Are you serious? You want us to start getting ready now?”
