Appetite

He first noticed her on an afternoon that should not have stayed with him. He had finished work early and stopped at a café near the bus terminal, choosing a small metal table close to the curb. Buses hissed as they pulled in and out. Someone argued on the phone. A delivery truck blocked the intersection long enough for one horn to sound, then another. Nothing about the moment suggested consequence.

She stood across the road, just beyond the pedestrian crossing.

She did not look at him, yet her stillness set her apart from the surrounding movement. People crossed in uneven bursts, down coats brushing past one another without contact. She remained where she was, hands loose at her sides, as though waiting for a signal only she could see. He shifted in his chair, then realized he had been watching her longer than he intended.

When he stood to leave, a scent caught in his throat. It was faint but distinct—damp soil after rain, mixed with something older, decomposing. He turned, expecting to see wet leaves or exposed earth, but the sidewalk was bare. She was already walking away.

That night, he replayed the moment while brushing his teeth and again while lying awake. By morning, the image had not softened. During his commute, he scanned faces in the station, irritated by his distraction. Two days later, he saw her again near the bus stop, standing where the pavement cracked and weeds pushed through the concrete.

This time, she looked directly at him.

The recognition unsettled him. His pace slowed without intention. When he spoke, his voice sounded louder than expected. She answered calmly, as though their conversation had begun earlier and merely paused. They discussed the weather, how the neighbourhood changed without improving, and how easy it was to feel unnoticed in a city that never stopped watching itself.

He spoke more than she did. He told her where he worked, how long he had lived there, and how conversations rarely seemed to go anywhere anymore. She listened without interruption, her attention steady. When she asked questions, they were brief and specific. Each answer led him further than he intended to go.

That evening at work, he mentioned her casually to a colleague while locking up.

“Be careful,” the man said, not looking up. “You don’t talk to strangers around here. Especially not the ones who ask you to follow them.”

He laughed it off. The warning felt exaggerated, the kind of advice people repeat when they lack better topics.

A few days later, they began walking together again without discussing the decision. His stride adjusted to hers. She did not volunteer stories of her own, but he did not find this strange. Instead, he filled the space, convinced her quiet meant she was absorbing everything he said. When she smiled, it felt earned.

When they parted, he lingered longer than necessary, watching her leave. The anticipation that followed surprised him. When she suggested they meet again, he agreed immediately, ignoring the faint resistance he felt as he walked home.

Their meetings settled into a pattern. They walked, he spoke, and she listened. He left each time with the sense that something had been set down, though he could not say what. He did not notice how easily his routine shifted to accommodate her availability. He did not question why she remembered details he had forgotten sharing.

One evening, she stopped and faced him. She said she needed help with something. The way she spoke made it clear she had considered asking and chosen him. She described it as a mess someone had left behind—something unpleasant that needed to be cleared away. She did not elaborate, only adding that she would not have trusted anyone else.

His first response was hesitation. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.

“Where?” he asked.

She gestured vaguely and began walking again.

They passed beyond the lit streets toward the strip of land locals referred to as the woods, though no one treated it like a park. It pressed between abandoned warehouses and the railway line, choked with tall grass and half-fallen trees. He remembered another warning then, one he had heard once at the café.

No one goes back there, at least not after dark.

The thought surfaced clearly, then faded as he followed her anyway.

The ground dipped unevenly, forcing him to watch his footing. Branches snagged his sleeves. The air smelled stagnant and heavy with rot and metal. Somewhere nearby, something rusted shifted with a dull scrape. He slowed and asked again where they were going.

She turned and studied him, then asked if he was afraid.

Heat rose behind his ears. His mouth opened before he could decide what to say. He admitted that he was, though the admission surprised him. His heart was beating harder than the walk justified.

She nodded once and told him fear made people attentive. Then she pointed to the ground and told him where to begin.

The work was more demanding than he expected. He dragged broken boards and tangled wire from the weeds, his hands stinging where metal scraped skin. His breathing grew uneven. As he worked, she spoke calmly, commenting on how people left things behind when they no longer wanted to deal with them. She mentioned avoidance, responsibility, and patterns repeated when left unexamined.

Her words settled uncomfortably. She referenced things he had told her—arguments he had walked away from, relationships he had let dissolve rather than confront. She did not accuse him. She named them. The accuracy tightened his chest.

When he finally stopped, his legs shaking, the silence pressed in around them. He heard his own breath, loud and uneven. The words came out before he could reconsider.

He said he felt foolish.

She regarded him for a moment, then said that recognizing his role was the first step toward change. The statement landed heavily. She said nothing else.

When the ground was cleared, he lowered himself onto it, arms trembling. She crouched beside him and told him he understood himself better now. Her voice was even, almost instructional. Then she stood and walked away, her footsteps fading into the dark.

He remained there until the temperature dropped and the woods seemed to close in. When he returned home, his clothes were soiled and his thoughts disordered. He stood under the shower longer than usual, replaying the warnings he had ignored.

In the days that followed, he questioned his memory of events and the judgment that had led him there. The certainty he once trusted no longer felt reliable.

She did not think of him again.

She positioned herself where people passed and waited. She had learned how easily warnings were dismissed and how readily attention was mistaken for connection. Each encounter confirmed what she already understood.

When one fell, she moved on.

Her appetite remained.