Tucked into Nerudova street, just a walking distance away from the Prague Castle, the hotel U Tichého Klí?e might not have been the fanciest, yet definitely was one of the most popular around the city. Surrounded by baroque facades, cobblestones inclines and too many stairs, it held that certain aura of an old Prague; the one long before everything happened — the one which saw history.
Not really big — only six floors, including the lobby level — it was a favorite place for mid-tier travelers in all times, and for academics, influencers and those coming for “urban horror experience”. Surely, it was not the only hotel like this, but it was one of the oldest to give in to the change willingly. While others resisted or covered up flickers and floorplan inconsistencies, U Tichého Klí?e adapted. Because that’s how life was nowadays.
It was a deep night, somewhere after two. The streets were silent: no occasional drunkards or late-night tourists. Everyone was used to the curfew, and once the sun would disappear behind the horizon, Prague would go to sleep as if by the snap of invisible fingers. Doors and windows closed, blinds pulled down, no wandering outside unless it’s something so urgent that you’re willing to risk everything you had.
The world outside was muffled like a cotton soaked in black water.
The hotel was silent too, of course, just the way it would be no matter the surrounding circumstances. The guests were in their respective rooms, most of the staff left for the night, leaving only some housekeeping (who probably were still getting their sleep in one of the laundry rooms or in the canteen on the couches), security who just passed the lobby and went upstairs to check on the hallways for “breathing”. He was a new guy, and, surprisingly, for born and raised ‘pra?ák’, treated everything like just some old wife’s tale. No one sought to change his mind, yet everyone knew he wouldn’t last a month. For now, he managed to hold on through two weeks.
With lobby windows covered with shutters and the main door locked, the reception was deadly silent. If anyone risked being outside and looked at the building from the street, they’d assume the hotel wasn’t even functioning, but in reality there was a little source of light — right at the reception counter a little desk lamp was illuminating just enough to see the book.
The night receptionist, Petra, had worked this place for a long time. Fifteen years, if she was right to remember. She was here before the Pits, was here before Prague became known as ’horror experience in the sizes of the city’. Others liked her — both employees and the guests — who wouldn’t like a nice woman in her forties with that unmistakable motherly attitude?
With her, everyone was always taken care of: a guest would always have an extra key and a warm drink on a chilly day; a colleague coming to the shift with a headache due to weather would be given tea, some painkillers and a chance to rest in the back-office while no one saw them.
It was easy with her, comfortable and not even disrupted by a sharp wit she sometimes would show — that was just part of her charm.
The little clock on the receptionist’s side of the desk, slightly hidden behind a protruding part of the counter, clicked quietly as the card with the number changed.
3:20 AM.
Almost the mirror hour.
She always found it a little strange: why only this exact time was considered an extra dangerous one? To think of it, every hour during the day had such a thing — 09:09, 2:20, 12:12…
She even read about it at some point, interested to find out any reasonable explanation, but there wasn’t much to work with. Pattern researches suggested that by 3:33 AM, most cognitive defenses were at their lowest: circadian regulation, identity tethering, and logic boundaries. She though it was a very scientific way to explain things, and it really left her questioning more (mainly about the meaning of what she read) and opening another article during that one sleepless night at work.
Conspiracy fans believed that 3:33 mirrored the triple spiral signature found on multiple recovered ritual diagrams which, of course, no one except them ever saw, and which they couldn’t take a photo of because all cameras suddenly vanished.
Casparites believed it represented a convergence — of memory, motion, and reflection.
The only thing she found which seemed at least somehow logical, pointed straight to the Pits. After they appeared, devices and clocks near them would always spontaneously reset to 3:33 AM, regardless of location or time zone, and some scientists who still treated Pits as something available for exploration believed this moment was a “global harmonic hiccup” caused by resonance.
Petra liked the last option because of that “hiccup”. Made things sound a little funnier than they were in reality.
As she was about to go prepare the water bottles which always had to be at the counter for hand out during check-outs, one sound disrupted all her thoughts and plans.
Knocking.
Soft. Desperate. Repeating.
Petra paused by the reception counter, staring at the front door as if it could make that knock disappear, but it didn’t work. Worse — a young voice followed.
“Please—god, I didn’t mean to stay out.”
He sounded breathless.
“Please. Something’s following me, a guy, a weird one. Please—”
Petra heard a crack in his voice, as if he was about to break down crying here and then, like a real frightened human being would.
“Please— someone— let me in— please—”
The knocking returned, frantic now, wet from the rain which was pouring outside the whole night — spring this year was not in a hurry to give anyone even a hint of warmth. The sound wasn’t rhythmic like they said it would — there didn’t seem to be a clear pattern.
It was just real.
And that thing alone was exactly what made Petra hesitate even if she had worked this hotel long before everything started; even if she always followed all the rules — never open, never peek, never talk to them. She knew they could sound real because they didn’t really changed anything inside you — they just would borrow what you had, “rent” you out and use your vocal cords. They sounded human. Always did.
“Please, I beg you—”
Something in that last plea got through to her; something in that soft, scared, trembling voice tugged at her heart like it would with any human being. Surely they were not that advanced. Everyone knew they were not. This boy, locked out of every single building in Prague, reminded her of her son when he was twelve and called from the tram stop during a thunderstorm: that soft desperation bordering on panic which would only appear when someone felt alone and abandoned.
Circling the reception desk, she came up to the door — not unlocking yet, just standing there.
“What’s your name?” her voice was gentle, like always.
“Daniel. Please.”
“Last name?”
She didn’t know why she asked specifically that, but it felt right in the moment. The clock on the desk clicked softly, changing card number again.
“...Why?”
That tiny pause should have been enough to step away from the door, forget she heard anything and go on with her duties she had left to do until the sunrise. But then, when she was already moving her foot to do exactly that, she heard him crying. A choked sob, weak one, but it was enough for her to turn back and unlock the first bolt. Then the second.
Opening the door just a sliver, Petra felt cold air rushing in like something from the outside exhaled the night right into her face.
The man behind the door was young, maybe early twenties. Tall, soaked, dirty — she noticed the mud on his knees. He stared at her wide-eyed, looking genuinely scared… except something was off.
Modern clothes, everything matching any other student around these places in this age. Yet his face…
Wrong.
It wasn’t monstrous, but it had that uncanny perfect symmetry which made it look like someone drew it from the memory instead of flesh.
They stared at each other for a long couple of seconds until Petra blinked. As if it was a permission to move, the young man smiled at her — too wide.
His face copied hers, just for a split second. Mouth, wrinkles, expression —everything matching perfectly, like a mirror which didn’t want to get caught.
She stumbled back abruptly, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath like a fish out of water. Slamming the door shut, she locked the first deadbolt, then the second, then the lock, her heart pounding in her ears as she stared at the dark wood.
She expected pounding, screams, scratching — anything monstrous, really, but it didn’t come.
He just… knocked once more. A perfect three-beat pattern.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
And then everything went silent.
Morning started unnoticed in the little rented apartment at ?i?kov. With the blinds fully closed and windows shut, the only indication of the city awoke outside was the sound of trams coming.
He woke up, rubbing his eyes with a soft sigh, took his phone from the night stand to see the time. 07.30. He sighed again and put the phone back, determined to get some more sleep, but ended up tossing and turning before giving up on that idea.
Today there was zero lectures at the university, but he still checked the schedule just to be sure because he never really trusted his own memory on this certain part. This time it technically helped too, since he noticed a reminder set about the interview for the job; but that was hours away from now — which left him with the need to think of something to kill that time he had with.
Getting up from the bed, he came up to the window and carefully opened the curtains, first just a peek to see if it was really daytime now, even if he heard the trams. Seeing the light, he pulled the curtains fully and then opened the window just a crack to let some fresh air in.
Not leaving immediately, he looked out for a moment too long, squinting at the street outside to see it was still normal. Satisfied with no seeming alterations, with his phone in hand (he knew it was an awful habit but still couldn’t get rid of it) he went to the bathroom to do a usual morning ritual of sitting down to relief and scroll through social media.
First things first — these days it wasn’t surprising at all — he stumbled upon several videos under "#IntoThePit" trend. He barely watched them, being on the side with those who preferred to stay as far from the thing as it was possible. People did trends out of everything nowadays, but, seriously, doing a dare of shoving your foot into the thing the government pretended didn’t exist and which had no bottom? Drones sent into those literally would go down for twenty minutes and then just die without a chance of retrieval because no one saw them the moment they descended the first five centimeters down.
#IntoThePit, #PragueHorrorExperience, #LetsGoSpirala, #VaclavWasHere… Groaning softly, he realized there was nothing significant to see except his mother posting a photo of the newly baked apple pie in her stories, so the phone was set aside on the washing machine.
Getting up, he got to the usual routine — washing the remnants of sleep off the face, brushing teeth to get rid of dragon’s breath. Spitting the toothpaste foam into the sink, he straightened up, a little too quick, and paused, looking at his own reflection. Counting down five seconds, he turned away, counted five more and pivoted sharply, watching the reflection again.
No delay. Good.
Blinking didn't show any abnormalities, too.
He sighed softly, looking into his own reflection’s eyes.
“I am me. I am now.” He watched his lips move, listened in to the sound of his own voice. “Okay, seems good enough.”
As he walked to the kitchen, he looked down down at his own shadow while passing the spot where the sun filtered in through the window. Shadow’s legs matched his.
Resting on the kitchen counter, there was a usual roll of tinfoil. As he put the kettle on, he tore a piece off without looking, bit in like a ritual. Right molar responded with a faint pang of pain.
Taking out milk from the fridge for coffee, he cast a quick look at the paper stuck to the door.
- Check the mirror — pivot and watch. Blink test.
- Drop keys — listen. Not what it sounds like — journal it.
- Whisper echo test (bathroom tiles only). Phrase: I am me. I am now.
- Tinfoil bite (right molar). No shock=24 watchlist.
- Count shadow legs — must match yours.
- If 3:33: do not look at windows. Listen only.
If something is different — do not tell it. Just write it down.
He tapped his finger over those things he already did, then paused at the "Drop keys" part. Why was it keys in the first place? Cause someone just did it that way and decided it was a good idea?
Whatever.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Taking out the milk and some pizza leftovers to warm up, he put the latter into the microwave and took the spoon from the coffee cup.
Dropped it down.
Listened.
They said if you heard the sound slightly muffled, it meant you were already listening with ears "which aren't yours". But for now it sounded fine.
Pressing on the spoon with his toe for a second — an old superstition from home which he still countered just because it seemed to be ingrained in his brain on the genetic level — he picked the spoon up.
The kettle beeped, announcing it had finished boiling the water up, but the sound reached his ears with a little delay. Just for a fraction of a second which he didn’t notice.
Since he still had a lot of time before the interview yet didn't want to sit at home brain-rotting while scrolling through TikToks, he eventually got out of the house just to wander. He often did that, going just wherever his mind decided to go, never really having a certain route, and with how rapidly Prague was changing this days, there was always a chance for an old trail to stop being viable and the new one to open up.
Last week there were talks about Pospí?ilová street looping, so now people tended to avoid it, but he still couldn't help but going into that direction without even noticing. If he ended up in such places, he usually blamed it on "professional deficiency", since, studying cartography and historical cryptography, he often managed to drift near the places which were looping or warping. Not to walk them, no. To watch from the side and see how different they were from the maps now.
Passing by the ?i?kovská tower, he noticed a little group of tourists with the guide telling the story of the place. As the guy pointed up, it could be seen he had a cat charm tied to his stick: a popular yet doubtful "protection" — no one was sure that it really helped, yet a lot of people owned one. That was at least something, since the IHCD didn't really give any self-protection things except a dry "Call us if you catch yourself in Stage 1".
Staying there for a moment, he just watched the tourists and the tower. It was kinda fascinating how people still traveled in times like this, let alone to Prague.
Then again, if they were Europeans, they tended to follow the rules. Asians would, too, out of respect "to the spirits". Americans were other case completely — always obnoxiously loud and sure that they owned the place they went to, considering Prague to be just one huge installation with the Pits and people suddenly going haywire when something inside them started brute-forcing the natural human geometry.
These group seemed to be a mix of all: an elderly Asian looking couple, a group of definitely Brits, and three girls who spoke English but had that distinct accent and loud voices on a regular basis to know immediately where they were from. They were giggling, asking the guide if there was a possibility to get closer to one of the Pits, and the latter smiled at them.
“It is highly recommended to stay away from the Pits and the designated areas around them. Orders from the IHCD.”
He breathed out softly but too soon, as the guide continued, telling the girls conspiratorially that he knew a guy, who knew a guy, who could organize a little tour to the Pit in Pet?ín.
Great.
Some people had no sense of preservation, and others had the will to make money on everything.
He rolled his eyes softly and continued on his way, though unable to throw one last glance at the tower. He always expected those creepy baby statues to start warping first, but it seemed they were awful enough on their own to ignore the situation across the country.
As he walked up to the crossroad to Polská street, the light was green. About to cross, he heard the car approaching, the sound of wailing siren reaching his ears a second later. Black sedan sped down the road, ignoring all the rules, but when you saw that emblem on the hood, you did not question them.
Circular frame with no escape holding a broken spiral inside. In the heart of that — a diamond shape with what looked like another spiral twisting into an eye integrated subtly. Double rings outside — some joked that one was for control, other for observation. The geometry of it was always perfect — on papers, on zines, on cars, on their building and, therefore, slightly unnerving: too exact, like it wasn’t made by human hand.
The IHCD. International Hallwalker Containment Division.
He watched the car drive by, seeing it was moving in the direction of Pospí?ilová street.
So, either shit was really bad there, or someone was just anxious enough to call the IHCD when they saw the straight line on the road warping slightly.
You did not call the IHCD on such things. At best, you didn’t call them at all.
Lobby smelled of wood polish, cardamom, and something unmistakably hotel-like, which brought you that sense of being at home while away from the actual one.
Listening in to the radiator ticking far off like a soft metronome, Mila sorted the key cards at the front desk. She never really liked this task in almost two years of working here, but it seemed no one liked it at all, so she eventually was the one who had to take it over and make it her sole responsibility when she was on the shift. Nearby, leaning against the counter, was Emil — the hotel’s detective, one and only who held this position for good 20 years which made it a little bit less than half of his life. Flipping through the keyboard with logs from the night, he looked up first when the door chimed.
A gust of chilly afternoon air entered the lobby along with two people: young, loud, curious. American accents. Tourist energy rolled off them in waves like a perfume, sitting on their skin and clothes, and especially this kind of folk was dangerous in modern days. They didn’t see silent borders created around certain things.
“Hi!” the woman was first to speak as she and her partner came up to the front desk, “We’ve got a reservation. Under Cassie Jensen? I think we booked the one with the view.”
“Yeah, the spiral street,” a man with her chimed in, resting his elbow on the counter, “It is the one with the weird lightning thing, right?”
Mila smiled politely at them, her voice crisp. “Yes, that’s the Thunovská street. Room 304.”
Taking the papers out of the printer which she turned on the moment they entered, she put those in front of the guests.
“This is an entry protocol form. Please, read thoroughly and sign down here.”
The woman, Cassie, laughed with amusement while her gaze swiped over the text.
“You guys really do this? The ‘don’t hum alone’ thing?”
“Wait,” her apparent boyfriend looked at them both, “seriously? This is like an escape room experience.”
Emil, still lingering nearby, didn’t look up — just snorted very faintly and muttered: “More like an escape-if-you-can experience.”
Mila cast him a side glance before turning back to the guests with a pleasant smile which didn’t quite matched her firm tone: “The protocol is for your safety. We ask that all guests follow the nightly silent hour. That means—”
“No singing at 3 AM, yeah,” the guy interrupted her with a chuckle, “we read that Reddit thread.”
They signed the papers, their pens both skipping slightly on the date line. Mila’s eyes flicked briefly to the clipboard, just noting for now.
“You’ll find reflective tape on your room’s wardrobe mirror,” she continued while issuing the key cards through the system, “Please, don’t remove it. If you’d like grounding charms, we have local ones available at the concierge desk.”
Cassie looked up at her, taking their passports back.
“Do they actually work?”
“You’ll know if you forget to wear one.”
Emil lingered behind the reception, observing — not fearful, just…tracking. He glanced down, noticing both guests’ shadow moved fine. For now. That was when the boyfriend finally paid a little more attention and noticed him.
“Hey, do you do the... security stuff?” he asked with interest.
Emil glanced at him, keeping a neutral expression: “Sometimes.”
“Cool. If we start glowing or something, you’ll come exorcise us, right?”
That was intended as a joke, no doubt, but Emil’s face didn’t change.
“That depends. If you’re still you when it starts.”
The clock on the front desk clicked softly, the number card changing to show the time: 14:14.
The guy finally laughed, though softer now, but no one supported him in this, and he quickly quieted down.
“Elevator is to the right,” Mila gave them the little carton with key cards and room number written along with some basic info about check-out and breakfast time. “And please…Close your blinds before sunset. Completely.”
Cassie shrugged.
“Sure thing. Creepy, but cool.”
They rolled their bags across the old tiles, the wheels stuttering briefly — just once — over a mark on the floor that wasn’t visible unless the light hit it sideways.
Emil finally looked up at Mila: “Fifty says they start flickering by Tuesday.”
Mila huffed softly, not encouraging yet not unwelcoming the usual bet.
“Monday night if they try ?i?kov tunnel.”
“You taking over my pool again?” Emil squinted at her, making her smirk in response as she returned to sorting the room keys by feel more than sight.
“Double if one of them starts humming something they can’t place.”
They fell quiet for a moment, the only sound being the same far-off clicking of the radiator in the staff rooms and the distant hum of the pianist tuning up in the lounge drifting in, soft and off-key.
The door opening again sounded almost too loud even though it wasn’t slammed or rushed. Just opened, as though whoever walked in had to think about whether to come in at all.
The air shifted a little, becoming not colder or darker — simply quieter; and Mila couldn’t help but think to herself: ‘Did the whole building just redirected the attention?’
“That him?” she heard Emil asking without turning around to see himself.
Mila checked the clock, then the reflection in the desk’s dark wood: “Seems so.” She paused for a beat. “On time. Quiet shoes.”
They both finally glanced towards the entrance, and there he was. The boy. Barely in his early twenties, looking just like on the photo from the resume. Medium-length hair naturally messy, looking like it was dried quickly and never styled, strands a little too long over the ears.
He wasn’t nervous like any applicant before him — more like unsettled in his own body covered in layers of clothing: shirt, old sweater, a coat which was already loosing its previously noticeable dark-blue color. His eyes, quiet, somewhat hazel colored, lingered on the chandelier, then moved to the framed mirror near the staircase — like he wasn’t sure if it was him looking back.
“He looks like he already knows something’s wrong,” Emil noticed, his gaze falling on a worn satchel the kid had. “Just hasn’t decided what yet.”
“Good,” Mila chimed, “means he won’t bolt at the first blackout like the previous one. But, God, he looks like there’s no blood in him.”
Just after she quieted down, the kid stepped towards the desk, and they both straightened, just slightly, bringing back the professional demeanor.
For a moment, none spoke. The light through the windows pulled long shadows from the hallway behind him, and it seemed like the whole hotel listened in at that moment.
Mila smiled first: “You must be here for Emil.”
Emil walked a little bit ahead, hands in his pockets, gait easy but sure. He followed the man, clutching the sachet maybe too tight against his ribs while looking around, trying to notice things.
He read some info about the hotel while preparing for the interview. Technically, the building was baroque, especially from the outside. In reality — altered, but then again, which in Prague was not these days? Most of them had that renovation after the first Pit appeared in town — supposedly, just a heritage preservation update. But inside, if you read the feedbacks on the official web and on Booking, no hallway was perfectly straight, corners didn't align at right angles. Rooms sometimes had extra doors that no one used. He noticed the ceiling slanting softly as they went, almost like the building was exhaling.
In other words, the building was just as the IHCD was constantly reminding everyone along with the EBCR. Would it be just them, everyone would huff and forget, but Spiralá dropped a word about a non-euclidean geometry, too, once in a while, so here, everyone tried to listen.
The hallway they walked through wasn’t long, yet it felt longer than it looked from the lobby. And then, as they passed a side corridor, he almost paused, because that passage wasn’t there a second ago, and the hallway itself suddenly wasn’t long either. Emil didn’t even spare it a glance.
His eyes trailed along the wainscoting, seeing the wood grain curling. Not in pattern — in intention. He felt it deep inside.
One step later he almost stumbled again, because the floor bent slightly downward — not enough to trip, but enough to force his foot learn something new in that instant. Staring down for a moment, he then looked up to see Emil already by the door.
“You’ll get used to the tilt,” Emil noticed, unlocking the door with an old key. The lock didn’t click — it sighed. “If you don’t, you’ll adapt. And if you don’t adapt — well. We’ve got the stairs for that.”
The office inside was warm, cramped, scattered with guests’ and staff’s files and mugs with salt rings. A map of Prague hung above the desk, pinned in eleven places, each one marked with little dots. A wall calendar flipped to the wrong month.
Emil passed by and sat down at the desk like it owed him something. Left with barely any choice, the kid sat down opposite, still but alert, and Emil couldn’t help but notice that something about the boy seemed quiet by design, like sound would bounce off him the wrong way.
Blinking, he took the paper folder with the CV and flipped it open.
“So... You want to work hotel nights with a guy who reports shadows to people with no last names.” He flipped the folder closed. “What, you broke a mirror and thought: time for detective work?”
The kid shook his head softly, his hair falling over his forehead: “I need hours. I don’t sleep well.”
“You will sleep worse.”
They were both silent for a second. Taking a cigarette out of the pack, Emil remembered he wasn’t supposed to smoke here and put it out half-lit without apologizing.
“You study?”
The kid nodded. “Yeah, Charles University, cartography and historical cryptography.”
Emil couldn’t help his eyebrow raising up. Great, they found themselves a future… what, librarian? A guy who took pics of streets to then make a map out of it? Seeing the kid watching him, he schooled his features.
“You know how to fight?”
“I know how to run,” he said evenly.
“Good,” Emil glanced down at the folder with his CV again. Only now realized the name wasn’t Czech. Something foreign, post-soviet even. Decided not to ask — it was audible the kid wasn’t a native speaker; but spoke decently, even though a little stiff and formal. “Rule one: if the guest’s shadow isn’t moving, don’t try to impress me. Rule two: if it starts humming and you hum back, I’ll drag you to the IHCD myself.”
The kid blinked slowly, looking wrong for a second.
“What if I’m already humming when it starts?”
Emil paused, looking up at him just for a second. This didn’t sound like a joke, it sounded like a damn flag.
“You’re on a one-week trial, starting tomorrow. No questions. Bring your own flashlight. And if I stay stop walking — you stop.”
When he went out of the hotel, it was already later afternoon. The sky was cloudless yet felt overcast anyway, and the city had already started to curl inward — that strange atmospheric pause the whole Prague learned to hold just before the first blind got pulled shut.
Stopping on the street, he adjusted the sachet on his shoulder, feeling the weight of his notebook in it, and then felt the buzz of the phone. It was a message from Emil, copying what he voiced in written, just in case: ‘First shift tomorrow. Be on time. Bring your own flashlight.” Then, another one: “And don’t ask stupid questions.”
He left it on read, then returned to it and sent a dry “Ok” back. The rest of the day was as free as the half before the interview, so, naturally, he started walking. Nowhere specific, just…away from the hotel.
Down a slope that wasn’t there half a year ago, past buildings that looked one memory off from where they should have been. As it always happened to him during these walks without a goal, he found something. A cafe, nestled down the street, hidden in the small alleyway leading to Jansky vr?ek.
He didn’t really mean to find anything like this, wasn’t really looking for coffee or a snack, but he noticed the sign which was hand-painted in faded red, and something inside him decided he needed to stop here. The sign was nailed right above the door which was slightly shorter than it should have been — like the building started slouching over time.
He thought maybe for thirty seconds before walking in. Just to see what it was like inside when it looked like that from the outside.
Just a step in, and the first thing he felt was a smell of orange peel, stone, and something like petrichor that forgot the rain. Not a pleasant scent, but not totally unbearable either.
Patrons sat in near silence, surrounded by dim lightning which was supposed to make it feel cozy but failed miserably — some read books, some just…were there. Like waiting for something in this place without any usual background music.
As he went in deeper to find a table, already forgotten he initially wanted just to take a look, he noticed the walls rippling faintly, like they were reacting to the breath of the room. It wasn’t uncommon to hear about these days, but it was the first time he saw it himself.
Sitting down at a corner seat near the window, he turned his head and froze, staring for a good while: the window was showing the street that didn’t match the outside. Blinking slowly, he sat like this for a couple of moments longer before turning his head away without any comments. And just in time, as the barista suddenly appeared by his side, no greetings at all.
“Coffee, tea, or chance?”
He blinked.
“Coffee.”
His order arrived in silence in a minute. No receipt. Glancing at the sugar packet and a spoon next to it he noticed a little spiral worked into a handle. That made him look around carefully. Spiralá’s place? No, didn’t seem like it. “Their place” claimed to be near V Celnici — a little bar “V pádu”, right across the road from the Masarykovo railway station. He stopped there occasionally during his walks, one time even got to see the “Reading Night” where no speaking was allowed — only passing notes.
But this place… No. Didn’t look like Spiralá. Didn’t look like something sponsored by the IHCD either yet was a little weird.
Remembering about the coffee, he took a sip—
Just for a second, the room tilted. Or he did. Or the light did. No one else reacted to it, so he pretended it didn’t happen and only adjusted in his seat a little. Next sip was easier.
Still holding the cup, he took his old notebook from the satchel; opened it on the table immediately covering the pen rolling to the left, then to the left again like the table wasn’t quite level. He didn’t even think when he stopped it, already getting distracted by another sip of coffee.
His fingers curling around the pen to start writing, he looked down and only now saw a note slipped under the saucer. Wasn’t there before, yet he didn’t see anyone placing it.
He glanced around before closing the notebook with the pen put in it, and took the note, assuming it maybe was a receipt after all. But there were only four words written in looping ink: ‘You’ll be walking soon’. No name or signature, but as he looked up, he saw a man sitting across the room. Wearing a coat too well-fitted, with eyes not quite focused on him, the guy raised a cup in a lazy toast as soon as they locked gazes, and smiled just barely.
He watched as after that the guy just stood up and left as if nothing happened.
“You better not forget the salt.”
He heard it right over his ear, a light whisper which disappeared as quick as it came. He expected to feel someone breathing down his neck, touching his shoulder, anything — but when he glanced behind him, there was no one there.
Just the wall.
