Brine
by Ahmad Thakur
The First Night
The store goes quiet after 1 AM. There’s a stretch when no one comes in, and if they do, it’s usually someone who already knows what they want.
I was restocking the canned goods, pulling dented labels forward so they looked presentable. Clara was at the counter, sitting on the stool we weren’t technically supposed to use, staring at her phone, probably checking Snapchat or something.
“So you met your mom over the weekend?”
“Yeah,” I said, stacking soup cans. “She’s fine. My brother’s out of town, so she gets lonely sometimes. I stop by every now and then to keep her company.”
“That’s sweet,” she said.
“Your dad?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
“He’s around,” she said, her voice sharp enough to make me pause. “And annoying as ever.”
I shrugged. “Sounds about right.”
Clara rolled her eyes and laughed. “You’re impossible.”
We talked like that without looking at each other, which is how most of our conversations went by that point. Filling the silence with small annoyances and questions we didn’t really need answers to.
The door opened.
I didn’t hear the bell. It sticks sometimes, especially when the air gets cold. I only noticed because Clara looked up.
The man was already inside, walking down the aisle nearest the freezers.
He looked older, maybe in his fifties, but he didn’t move like someone who’d had a long day. He was tall, well dressed, his hair neat in a way that felt intentional. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, and for a moment I wondered why he’d need them indoors. Maybe on his way home from somewhere better?
I went back to stacking cans, watching him only when I straightened up. He moved slowly, stopping at each shelf as if he were reading labels, though
I didn’t see him pick anything up. After a while, I lost track of where he was and assumed he’d gone to another aisle. I only heard him again when he came to the counter.
He smiled at Clara. “Quiet night.”
“Yeah,” she said, giving him her trademark polite, fake for-the-customer smile. “It’s… peaceful.”
He set a single item on the counter. Something small. She scanned it, and the register made its usual noise, too loud in the empty store. They talked while she rang him up. I don’t remember the details. He asked her something about the town, she replied. It was ordinary, meant to fill the silence.
He paid in cash and thanked her. He nodded once in my direction without really looking at me, then turned and walked out.
The door closed behind him. The bell rang that time.
Clara watched him leave and said, “He looked like an actor. One of those people you see in movies and think, ‘Yeah… he belongs somewhere else.’”
“Maybe,” I said, not really caring.
We went back to what we were doing. I finished the aisle I was on and moved to the next one. Clara went back to her phone.
Later, when I passed the freezer aisle, I tried to remember which direction he’d gone when he left. For a moment, I couldn’t picture it clearly. I stood there longer than I needed to, then shrugged it off and kept working.
The store stayed empty for the rest of our shift. When it finally ended at 3 am, the lights felt too bright, and the quiet of the empty store had settled into my head. Clara yawned, stretched, and waved as I locked the door behind us. The street outside was empty, cold, and still. By the time I got home, I had forgotten about the man.
The Second Night
The store was already lit when I arrived, but something about the aisles felt… off. I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the angle of the lights, or maybe my mind was still half asleep.
Clara was at the counter, phone in hand as always. She didn’t look up when I came in, just waved one hand at me. I nodded and went to the shelves.
The quiet had settled in again. No carts. No chatter. Just the hum of the refrigerators and the scrape of boxes as I stocked the shelves.
Around 1 AM, the door chimed. He stepped inside before I even noticed, moving down the aisle nearest the freezers. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, just like last night. He didn’t take a basket, didn’t pause—just walked at that slow, measured pace that made him hard to track.
I went back to my work, stacking cans and pretending not to watch.
He reached the counter and placed a single item down. Clara looked up from her phone and rang it through.
“Quiet night again,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said. “Not that you’d notice much with how empty it is.”
He nodded, glancing around as if noticing the empty store for the first time. “You work here often?”
“Most nights,” Clara said. “Some nights feel longer than others, though.”
“I imagine,” he said. “Do you like it? The night shift?”
“It has its moments,” she said, tapping the counter lightly. “Not much excitement, though.”
He chuckled softly. “Sometimes quiet is good. Gives you time to think. Or… to notice things you might miss in the day.”
Clara nodded. “Yeah. You notice a lot in the quiet.”
He leaned slightly closer, still behind the sunglasses. “Like what?”
Clara tilted her head, as if considering. “Little things. People’s habits. The way someone stacks cans. The hum of the freezers. The way the clock seems slower when no one’s around.”
He smiled faintly, almost knowingly. “I like noticing things too.”
I kept stacking, pretending to be absorbed in the shelves, but I could hear every word. I couldn’t help noticing the way he leaned slightly closer when he spoke, the faint grin that seemed meant just for her. He was clearly much older than us and yet he carried himself like he belonged in this easy, flirty rhythm with Clara. She didn’t mind it at all—she was relaxed, laughing softly at his small jokes. And yet, for some reason, it bothered me.
I shook my head and kept moving down the aisle. It wasn’t like I was… anything. Just a coworker. Still, something about the ease he had, the way he talked to her, made my chest tighten without warning. It felt… weird.
When he left, Clara let out a quiet breath, chuckled, and said, “He really does like noticing things.”
I froze for a moment, my mouth opening without thinking.
“What?” she asked, frowning slightly, clearly annoyed at my reaction.
I said nothing, just shook my head and went back to stacking cans. She went back to her phone, scrolling silently, and we didn’t really talk for the rest of the shift.
The night passed quietly. No one came in. The hum of the freezers, the scrape of boxes, and the clock ticking were the only sounds until our shift ended.
The Third Night
The store was quiet when I arrived, the usual hum of the freezers filling the aisles. A mother with two kids was at the counter, Clara ringing them up while they fidgeted and bickered softly. She didn’t look up as I started stocking the shelves, just gave me a small wave.
Once the mother and her kids left, the store returned to its usual quiet hum. Clara leaned on the counter, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“So,” she said, glancing at me, “what are your plans for the weekend?”
I shrugged, stacking cans. “Nothing special. Might just catch up on some shows, maybe sleep in a bit. You?”
“I’m going to a movie with some friends,” she said, smiling. “Finally. Feels like forever since I did something like that.”
I nodded. “Sounds fun. What movie?”
“Something action-y,” she said with a little laugh. “You’d hate it.”
I rolled my eyes, smiling slightly. “Probably.”
She tilted her head. “How’s college going, by the way? Your grades okay?”
“Yeah… alright, I guess,” I said, pulling a box of cereal down from the top shelf. “I’ve picked my courses for next semester. A mix of coding stuff and a couple electives.”
As I stacked the boxes, I noticed a few at the back were past their expiration dates. Mr. Patel, the store owner, had told me to just leave them on the shelf—let some unsuspecting customer grab them. Part of the job, I supposed. Funny, in a grim way, how someone could make a profit off that.
“Oh? Which electives?” she asked, curious.
“Philosophy,” I said. “Needed some variety. What about you?”
Clara grinned. “I went with media studies and creative writing. Figured I could finally put my social media scrolling to good use,” she teased.
I laughed quietly. “Sounds about right.”
I stacked the last few boxes on the top shelf and wiped my hands on my jeans.
“You think anyone actually buys that expired cereal back there?” I asked, nodding toward the shelf.
“Some poor soul probably will,” she said, laughing softly. “Mr. Patel doesn’t care as long as he makes a few extra bucks. Classic Mr. Patel.”
We went back to our routine, exchanging the occasional joke about how slow the night was.
Then, exactly at 1 AM, the door chimed. I froze mid-reach, instinctively looking toward the aisle near the freezers. He was there, moving like he belonged in the store, dark sunglasses still hiding his eyes.
Clara glanced up, giving him her polite smile, but I could tell she noticed him immediately. I went back to stacking cans, pretending not to watch.
He reached the counter, setting a single item down.
Clara glanced up, offering a small smile. “Back again,” she said. “Right on schedule.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Do you always work the same nights?”
“Most of them,” Clara replied, leaning slightly on the counter. “It’s easier than switching around, I guess. You’d be surprised how different the store feels depending on the night.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
Clara shrugged. “Some nights, it’s just… empty. Quiet. Other nights, you get a few customers who make it feel alive again. Depends on the people, I guess.”
“I see,” he said, nodding, “so the rhythm of the night is… shaped by strangers?”
Clara laughed softly. “I don’t know… some nights drag, some nights fly by. I guess it depends on what I’m thinking about—or what I’m listening to.”
He nodded, listening, and leaned slightly over the counter to read the label on the item she was scanning. In doing so, he pushed his sunglasses up onto his head.
Clara’s eyes flicked to his for a split second, and I noticed the change in her expression—a tiny pause, a quick blink.
“So,” he continued, voice calm, easy. “Do you have a favorite kind of music?”
Clara hesitated for a moment. “I like a bit of everything. Lately, mostly indie stuff. My friends always make fun of me for it, though.”
He nodded as Clara spoke. “Mhmm,” he said. “I like indie music too… although I may be too old for what the youngsters are into these days.”
Clara gave a polite smile, and he picked up his item. With a quiet nod, he turned and walked out. The door chimed behind him, and the store returned to its usual hum.
I leaned on the shelf for a moment. “Hey, you okay?” I asked softly, but she didn’t respond. She was staring at the counter, her hands fidgeting slightly, clearly on edge.
I called her again, a little louder. “Clara?”
She jumped slightly, her body stiffening as if she’d just snapped out of a trance. “What… what?” she asked, voice a little sharp, eyes wide for a moment. Then she blinked, took a deep breath, and forced a small smile. “I’m fine. Just… lost in thought, I guess.”
I didn’t push it. She went back to her routine, pretending nothing had happened, and I went back to stacking cans. The rest of the night passed without incident—no customers, no surprises.
By the time our shift ended, the quiet of the empty store felt heavier than usual, but Clara walked out with a tight-lipped smile, and I followed behind her, wondering what had crossed her mind.
The Fourth Night
I came in for my shift, and before I could drop my bag, Clara waved me over.
“Hey, you take the counter tonight,” she said, grabbing a box and heading toward the shelves.
“Uh… why?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
She shrugged, not looking back. “Just… do it.”
I hesitated. I used to run the counter before Clara showed up, but Mr. Patel wanted a pretty blonde at the front, thinking it would attract more customers. Like he was running a car dealership instead of a tiny mart in a rundown neighborhood.
I sighed and moved to the counter, stacking receipts and trying not to think too hard about it. Clara disappeared between the aisles, humming quietly as she stocked shelves.
A few customers trickled in—an older man grabbing milk and bread, a kid tugging his mom toward the candy aisle. Clara greeted them with her usual friendly smile, while I rang them up, making small talk when needed.
I glanced at the clock. Midnight had passed, and the store was slowing down again. I picked up a stray soda can, rearranging it on the shelf, and Clara was humming under her breath as she straightened a row of pasta boxes.
Everything felt ordinary, the night stretching lazily ahead, until exactly at 1 AM, the door chimed.
It was the man again. He stepped inside, moving toward the aisle where his item sat. After a moment, he picked it up and made his way to the counter—toward me this time.
He paused for a split second when he saw me behind the register, his eyebrows lifting slightly, almost like he hadn’t expected to see me there.
“Oh,” he said softly, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Where’s the pretty girl?”
I looked over his shoulder and caught Clara—half-hidden behind an aisle, a finger pressed to her lips in a shushing gesture.
Is she… hiding? I wondered, frowning slightly.
“She’s off tonight,” I replied to the man.
He nodded slowly, as if processing the information, then gave a faint smile and handed me his item. A jar of clear brine.
No small talk this time, just the quiet shuffle of his shoes on the floor as I rang it up. He handed me cash, took his change, nodded politely, and left. The door chimed behind him, and the store felt empty again.
After he left, I glanced toward the aisle where Clara had been hiding.
“Hey… why were you hiding?” I asked.
She straightened, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t hiding,” she muttered, though her voice had that tense edge.
“Uh-huh,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Standing behind an aisle with your finger over your lips doesn’t exactly scream ‘not hiding.’”
She shot me a glare. “Shut up. I was… just staying out of his way.”
I shrugged. “Sure, sure. So… why?”
“He’s… creepy,” she said, her voice low.
“Creepy how?” I asked, leaning a little on the counter.
Her eyes flicked away for a moment, like she was trying to find the words. “His eyes… they’re weird. Like… I don’t know. Fake? Like he’s looking at you but not really seeing you.”
I processed what she’d said for a moment, frowning. A man with sunglasses with weird eyes underneath.
“So… he’s blind?”
Clara blinked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Blind? Are you serious? How the hell is he moving around like that if he’s blind?”
“Well… blind people can get used to stuff, right? Practice and all that,” I said, trying to reason.
She threw her hands up. “You’re not taking me seriously. Or you’re making fun of me.”
“Hey, come on… you were the one flirting with him the other night,” I said, half-smiling.
Her face flushed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”
I didn’t answer. She turned sharply and stormed back to the shelves, muttering under her breath. The rest of the night passed with her silently stocking aisles, tense and still mad. I stacked cans quietly beside her, the hum of the freezers feeling heavier than usual.
The Fifth Night
I walked into the store, rubbing my eyes.
“Hey,” Clara said, tossing a box onto a shelf. “You mind running the counter tonight as well?”
“Oh, man,” I groaned. “I don’t like dealing with people.”
She shrugged, already heading to the aisles. I followed her gaze for a moment and sighed. I knew why she was asking me to take the counter—because of him.
I leaned against the register, thinking. Who was this guy, really? Why did he come every night at 1 AM? Maybe he’d moved into the neighborhood… but daily, at the same exact hour?
Midnight passed slowly. The aisles hummed quietly under the fluorescent lights. Then, exactly at 1 AM, the door chimed.
He stepped inside, moving straight to the counter where I was stationed. He picked up the small jar of clear brine—just like yesterday—and placed it down. His eyes flicked around, clearly disappointed he hadn’t run into Clara.
I rang it up. He handed me cash, nodded once, and left. The door chimed again, leaving the store quiet.
A few moments later, Clara emerged from between the aisles, stretching.
“You… you really don’t think anything’s wrong with him, do you?” Clara asked, frowning, her fingers twisting the edge of a box.
I shrugged. “No… I mean, I haven’t seen anything unusual.”
“Did… did you see his eyes?” she asked, hesitating, almost afraid of the answer.
I frowned. “Uh… he was wearing those sunglasses as usual. Didn’t get a look.”
“So… what did he buy tonight?” Clara asked, biting her lip, frowning slightly.
“Jar of brine,” I said.
“Five nights in a row, and you’re telling me that isn’t unusual?”
I leaned back against the counter, smirking. “Maybe he’s just really into pickles.”
Clara rolled her eyes but didn’t smile. “I’m serious. There’s something off about him. It’s… it’s like he’s noticing everything, even things he shouldn’t. I can feel it when he’s around.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Noticing… the brine?”
She gave me a sharp look. “You’re not taking me seriously.”
I held up my hands. “Hey, I’m just saying… buying a jar of brine every night? Maybe it’s just a weird habit.”
Clara shook her head and muttered under her breath, glancing toward the door as if expecting him to walk back in. “It’s not just a habit. There’s a rhythm to him… too precise. Too deliberate.”
I leaned on the counter, watching her straighten a few boxes, my unease growing despite myself. Something about the way she said it made me pause. Maybe she was seeing something I wasn’t.
We closed the shop a little after three. I pulled the shutters down while Clara counted the till, the metal clattering louder than it should have in the empty street. When we stepped outside, the cold hit us immediately.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, already backing away.
“Yeah. Night,” I replied.
We headed off in opposite directions like we always did. I walked a few steps, hands in my pockets, my breath fogging the air. After a moment, I glanced back without really knowing why.
That’s when I saw him.
Not close—far enough to look accidental. He was walking a few paces behind Clara, unhurried, hands at his sides. Just his silhouette under the streetlight, stretched long across the pavement.
I stopped.
Clara didn’t seem to notice. She kept walking, phone in hand, shoulders relaxed, like she always was once she was out of the store.
Maybe he was just heading the same way. Maybe he lived nearby. I told myself that. People walk at night. It happens.
But he matched her pace exactly.
When she slowed, so did he. When she crossed the street, he crossed too, a few seconds later. Not close enough to be obvious. Just close enough to be intentional.
I started walking after him.
Not fast. Not close. Just enough to keep him in sight. I didn’t want to confront him—partly because I didn’t know what I’d say, and partly because if he was dangerous, I didn’t feel like finding that out the hard way. I’m not brave. I never have been.
But Clara was ahead, and that mattered more.
There was a tight, unpleasant feeling in my stomach, the kind you get when something doesn’t add up but you can’t prove it yet. Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe this was all just my brain connecting dots that weren’t there.
Still, I didn’t want to risk it.
I kept my distance, footsteps light, telling myself I’d turn back if he did. Telling myself this was nothing. Telling myself a lot of things, really—none of them very convincing.
Eventually, we reached Clara’s building. She slipped inside, disappearing behind the door.
He didn’t follow. He stopped on the opposite side of the street, just standing there, staring at the building like he had all the time in the world.
I wanted to call out to her, warn her somehow, but I didn’t have her number. We’d never exchanged numbers. Didn’t feel the need to. We weren’t… close. Not like that.
He just stayed there. Still. Motionless. Watching. What felt like forever.
Then his head turned. Slowly. In my direction.
I couldn’t see his eyes. The sunglasses were still on. But I knew he was looking at me.
He raised a hand and reached for his sunglasses. The gesture was casual, almost absentminded, like he’d forgotten he was wearing them.
He took them off.
I saw his eyes then, and something in my chest tightened. They didn’t look wrong in any obvious way—no strange color, no deformity—but they didn’t sit right either. Too still. Too focused. Like they weren’t reacting to the light, or to me.
They stayed on me, unblinking, measuring.
I panicked.
And I ran.
Down the empty street, boots pounding against the pavement. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I could feel his attention on me all the same.
I couldn’t sleep that night.
The Sixth Night
I walked into the store, pushing the door open against the hum of the fluorescent lights. Mr. Patel was at the counter.
“Morning—uh, night,” I muttered.
I glanced around. “Did Clara take the night off or something?”
Mr. Patel shook his head from behind the counter. “No. She didn’t. Just didn’t show up. I tried calling her, but no answer. Can you call her, or reach out to her on whatever apps you kids use?”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t have her number or anything.”
He ran a hand over his face, clearly annoyed.
So he ran the counter. I stocked shelves. Stacked cans. Adjusted labels. Went up and down the aisles, pretending the routine could drown out the tension curling in my stomach.
Mr. Patel muttered under his breath every so often, irritated, tired, snapping at the smallest thing—a tin can knocked over, a price tag peeling.
I anxiously waited for 1 AM, glancing at the clock periodically.
But 1 AM came and went, and the man didn’t show up. Didn’t come at all.
The night stretched on, long and empty, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Clara should have been here. Even a little late. If she was going to take a day off she would’ve told Mr. Patel. She wasn’t irresponsible like this.
I thought about calling the police. Just a quick check, a simple report. But I didn’t.
What if she was just sick? What if she was scared of something stupid? I didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to look paranoid, didn’t want to admit the pit growing in my stomach was panic.
So I didn’t call.
The night ended. Mr. Patel left with a grunt of relief.
I locked up the store, stepped out into the quiet street, and walked home under the weak glow of the streetlights. The sidewalks were empty, the wind biting through my jacket. My mind kept drifting back to her, to the way she hadn’t shown up, to the way the man had followed her the night before.
By the time I got inside, I was drained. I dumped my bag, peeled off my jacket, and collapsed on the couch.
I picked up my phone to scroll, just to distract myself, kill some time, anything to stop thinking. Social media, memes, pointless videos. A few hours of nothing.
Then I stumbled upon a news piece from earlier that evening.
Local girl found dead.
My stomach dropped.
I clicked it, heart hammering. The article was short, brutal in its brevity. She’d been found in her apartment. Eyes… missing.
I froze at the picture of the victim.
Clara.
I didn’t know what to do.
I thought about calling the police. But what would I even say? That a guy bought brine every night? That he wore sunglasses indoors? That I felt like something was wrong?
How would I describe him? Tall. Well-dressed. Good-looking. Normal enough to sound ridiculous out loud.
And then there was the other thought—the one I didn’t like sitting with.
What if he was tracking me too?
The idea crawled up my spine, slow and cold. I set my phone down and stood, suddenly aware of how quiet my apartment was.
I walked over to the window and looked out at the street.
That’s when I saw it.
A small package sitting right outside my doorway.
I went outside and picked it up. The paper was plain, nothing to indicate who had left it. My fingers trembled as I carried it inside, set it on the kitchen counter, and slowly peeled back the wrapping.
Inside… a jar of brine.
And in the brine, a pair of eyes.
Just… sitting in the clear liquid. Smooth, pale spheres, the pupils fixed and glassy, staring through the brine.
I stared back.
It was her.
I never saw the man again.
