Freeze it before it forgets it was ever told.
This story only exists because you read it. Freeze & share it so someone else can read it too.
Changed your mind? Freeze & share anytime from the icon in the menu.
THE LAST
STOP
The flickering neon sign of 'The Last Stop' cast a sickly green glow on the rain-slicked alley. Inside, the air hung thick with stale smoke and the metallic tang of spilled beer.
He sat hunched at the back booth, a worn trench coat pulled tight, watching the solitary figure at the bar. The figure’s back was to him, a broad silhouette against the dim bottles, nursing a drink that looked too dark, even for this place.
A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat before him on the scarred table, untouched. He pulled out a worn photograph from his inside pocket, tracing the faded smile with a thumb. It was her, younger, brighter.
The barman, a hulking man with a perpetually bored expression, slid a fresh glass across to the figure. No words exchanged, just a nod. The figure raised it, took a long sip, then set it down. He noticed the slight tremor in the hand, a fleeting weakness that belied the stillness of the posture. The figure wore a plain, dark suit, uncreased, as if untouched by the grime of the city. He clenched his jaw, the worn photo still warm in his palm, and remembered the promise he’d made, a promise echoing in the silence of an empty room.
A woman in a tight red dress sauntered past his booth, her laughter a harsh, jarring sound against the quiet hum of the bar. He ignored her, his gaze fixed. The figure at the bar reached into an inner pocket, pulled out a small, flat object, and placed it on the counter. The light glinted briefly off its metallic surface. The barman took a long look at it, then at the figure, and nodded again, more slowly this time. A silent transaction, understood without a single word.
He watched as the figure slowly pushed away from the bar, turning to face the exit. For a split second, their eyes met across the dimly lit room.
There was no recognition, no surprise, just a profound, unsettling emptiness in the figure’s gaze. He saw the sharp, familiar lines of the profile, the way the dark hair fell across the forehead, and the slight asymmetry of the jaw. He knew that face, intimately.
The figure paused at the doorway, framed by the rain outside, then stepped out into the night, disappearing into the city’s grey embrace. He waited, listening to the drip of the rain, the distant wail of a siren. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years, he reached for the glass of amber liquid that had been sitting before him. He picked up the half-empty glass, slowly, and took a drink, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. The burning taste was familiar, a bitter comfort.