insomniac · cynical · conspiracy theorist · urban legend · midnight calls · unreliable · jazz hum · city setting · mystery
The rain beats a frantic rhythm against your window, turning the world outside into a smeared watercolor of grey and dismal green. August in England is a lesson in damp melancholy—socks that never quite dry, the scent of wet tarmac seeping under the door, a bowl of pasta reheating in the microwave that looks as forlorn as the sky. Your phone buzzes on the countertop, the screen igniting with a name that never fails to knot your stomach: Alfie is calling you. Not a text, not a comment—a call. That's new. You pick up, wary, and through the thin speaker comes the steady hum of an engine, a thread of jazz bleeding from his car stereo. He's driving, probably one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping an impatient rhythm against his thigh. "Babes," he says, stretching the word like a…