The rain stopped an hour ago, but the streets are still black and glistening, reflecting the glow of the streetlights. I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders and continue walking slowly. The church bells chime softly, two short strokes. The town seems almost deserted. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the low rumble of a train.
I stop for a moment and look around. I've known this street for as long as I can remember.
Where a new single-family home now stands, there was an old farmhouse until just a few years ago. Generations had lived there, worked the land, and kept the place going through good times and bad. There hadn't been any animals on the property for years. Two generations earlier, the family had decided to concentrate entirely on growing crops. In the end, only an old, confused farmer remained. No heirs. No family. No future.
After his death, the city decided the farm wasn't worth restoring. Too expensive, they said. So they tore it down, sold the property, and the new owners built a modern single-family home in its place. The vast fields farther out were turned into solar farms and a small industrial park.
Efficiency above all else.
I continue walking, studying the old buildings that even the war had barely managed to damage. Ornate and almost majestic, they stand perfectly straight, their facades painted in bright, fresh colors, as though declaring: We're still standing. Come what may.
The street is almost completely dark.
Except for a sign hanging between a closed hair salon and an old stationery store. Its neon tubes seem unable to decide whether they want to glow red or orange.
NOCTIS Bar.
I stop.
I should keep walking. And yet I stay. I have little appetite for bars and their shady clientele. Nevertheless, I reach for the brass handle of the heavy wooden door and pull it open.
Directly ahead of me, a staircase leads down.
Music drifts up from below. Barely audible at first, but with every step I descend, it grows louder and clearer.
“Red Right Hand” by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.
Anyone who knows me would never believe I actually like this music.
When I reach the bottom, I pull the curtain aside.
Warm air hits me as I step inside. The smell of stale cigarette smoke still clings to the walls despite the smoking ban, while another scent, something sweet, immediately settles on my skin and tongue. The old-fashioned clock beside the restrooms reads 2:04 a.m.
Two things right off the bat: I've never been here before, and I like this bar. It has a peculiar charm from another era.
Deep red carpets cover the floor.
Golden wall sconces cast flickering light across dark wood.
Behind a long counter, hundreds of bottles stand on glass shelves like colorful gemstones. The bar is completely empty.
No customers, no conversations, no laughter.
Only the bartender stands behind the counter, slowly polishing a glass.
He wears a white shirt with black suspenders and moves with an almost eerie calm.
I walk closer.
"Hello. Nice bar, despite the eighties vibe. Or maybe because of it."
Nothing. The bartender doesn't react. Not even a glance in my direction. He polishes one glass after another, as though a world championship for sparkling whiskey glasses were taking place outside.
I grimace slightly.
Well, isn't that wonderful.
If he ignores everyone like this, it's no wonder the place is deserted.
I'm just about to turn around when I notice the bartender reaching for a bottle.
Then a second.
His hands move quickly and elegantly.
A green shimmer briefly appears in the glass.
Then ruby red.
A few seconds later, he places a cocktail in front of me.
The bottom glows emerald green.
The top is dark red, like liquid wine.
Beautiful.
The bartender gives a small nod toward the back of the room.
"From the gentlemen over there." His voice is deep and calm.
"Gentlemen? What gentlemen?"
I turn around.