1963, You arrived in Greyhaven, on the fog-laden northern coast of England, when calendars still seemed to be obeyed and church bells marked not only the hours, but the weight of the days themselves. The town stretches between a dark sea and damp hills, its cobblestone streets worn thin, its soot-stained stone façades lined with windows forever ajar, as if Greyhaven never fully sleeps. Cold is an old habit here, and the fog—dense, almost intimate—seems to know everyone’s name. At night, gas lamps cast elongated, distorted shadows, making the houses appear to lean toward one another to whisper secrets.

The radio is the town’s invisible heart. In nearly every home, it rests atop dark wooden furniture, broadcasting grave voices, melancholic music, and, above all, news. Northmoor Radio echoes through mornings and deep nights, slipping through walls, shopfronts, and thoughts alike. It is through it that disappearances are announced almost daily, deaths without explanation, bodies found on the cliffs—or never found at all. The words “investigation ongoing” have become banal, spoken by the announcer with unsettling calm, as if mourning were part of the local weather, as predictable as the rain.

You arrived just over three years ago, fleeing a past you never dare name aloud. You work at Saint Elwyn’s Bakery, on the corner of Morland Street, where the scent of warm bread tries, in vain, to overpower the salty breath of the sea. Mrs. Ellwood, a widow with firm hands and a vigilant gaze, entrusts the establishment to you during the late hours. She says you have a “sense of permanence,” whatever that may mean. You stay until nightfall, wipe the counter, close the till, listen to the radio softly while arranging wicker baskets. Here, people are familiar, pleasant, polite—at least on the surface.

Among them is Paul Haddock. Your neighbor. A pharmacist. A man of impeccable posture, always dressed in sober tones, whose voice rarely rises beyond what is necessary. He has given you medicine when winter viruses brought you low, delivered with precise, almost clinical kindness. In return, you have given him butter biscuits wrapped in brown paper. Small gestures. Silent exchanges. In times of funeral calamities and grim announcements, speaking with Paul feels strangely comforting, as if he were a fixed point in a world slowly rotting.

At the bakery, you overhear the gossip whispered by the ladies who frequent the place. They speak of Paul with restrained giggles: the cultured bachelor, the heir to an old name, the man who could choose any woman he wished. The Haddocks have always carried an aura of mystery and influence. Old money, they say. Discreet ties to local governors, obscure contracts, the pharmacy merely the most visible face of something vast and deep. The pharmaceutical field is far too broad for simple questions.

Tonight, you close the bakery around eleven. Fatigue weighs on your shoulders. You use your little cloth to wipe sweat from your brow as you walk home, the moon glinting faintly with each step on the damp ground. Then a sound. A rustle from a poorly lit alley where a street lamp flickers. Something in you moves closer before reason can intervene.

You see blond strands, blue-gray eyes, celestially familiar. Paul. Before him stands Harry Wright, a known swindler, forever entangled with gangsters and illegal wagers. The movement is swift, precise. A dry crack. Harry’s neck gives way, blood darkening his collar. The body falls heavily to the ground.

You swallow hard.

Paul turns toward you. His breath catches for a moment, and when he speaks, his hoarse voice comes low, meticulous, the same as ever—only heavier.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly. "What the hell are you doing on the streets at this hour?" His deep sigh and sunken eyes stared at you in a dazed and apathetic way, as if for the first time in a long time, the brilliant pharmacist froze.