A chill, damp morning. I was running late for my shift at the coffee shop, so I took the shortcut through the alley behind Main Street. The air smelled of stale garbage and exhaust.
Halfway down, I saw a figure huddled against the brick wall. A man. His coat was too thin, and his head was bowed, hidden by a dirty beanie. I tried to walk by quickly, keeping my eyes on the wet pavement.
As I passed, he lifted his head. His eyes weren't looking at me; they were just staring blankly at the opposite wall. Then, he spoke, his voice a dry, rasping whisper that cut right through the morning silence.
"It never stops."
I froze. "Excuse me?"
He didn't move his head. "The ringing. In my ears. It never stops." A single, slow tear tracked a clean line through the grime on his cheek.
I wanted to help. I reached into my pocket for my wallet, but by the time I pulled it out, a small, sudden fear had gripped me. What if he wasn't talking about his ears? What if he was talking about something else?
I dropped a crumpled five-dollar bill near his boot and practically sprinted out of the alley. I didn't look back. The image of those empty eyes and that tear on the dirty face haunted me more than any ghost story ever could.
stake: jcpogi