The pub wasn’t supposed to be here.

I was sure of it. I’d passed this street a dozen times before, maybe more. I’d seen the building—boarded up, tagged with graffiti, a hollow shell waiting for the wrecking ball. But now, here it was, open in some fashion, the door hanging half off its hinges and the faint sound of rain leaking through shattered windows.

I stepped inside, though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I wanted to confirm it for myself. Maybe I wanted to see what had been left behind.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Damp wood, ale soaked so deeply into the floorboards it could never be scrubbed out, and the faint mineral tang of rain sneaking through the cracks. The windows were blown out, jagged shards catching what little light made it past London’s heavy sky.

And then I saw her.

She was on a couch shoved beneath the far wall, her legs folded up, one arm draped along the top like she was bored. Her skirt—a rich red, creased and careless—spilled over her knees, and her shirt hung loose at the neck, showing a pale slant of collarbone. She looked young. Too young, maybe. But there was something in the way she sat, the stillness of her, that felt older.

Her eyes flicked to me as I stepped further in. Big, dark eyes that pinned me where I stood, as if she’d been waiting for me to arrive.

“Thought this place was gone,” I said, my voice sounding louder than it should have in the silence.

“It’s still here,” she replied, her tone flat, indifferent. “You just stopped noticing.”

I glanced around. The pub was wrecked, of course. The bar had been stripped down to bare wood, the stools scattered and broken. The mirror behind the bar was smashed, leaving only jagged edges to reflect the room in pieces. Rain was coming in through the windows, pooling in shallow puddles on the warped floorboards.

“How long’s it been open?” I asked.

“It’s not open,” she said.

I frowned. “Then what are you doing here?”

She tilted her head, a small movement that seemed almost lazy. “What are you doing here?”

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t have an answer, not really.

She stretched her legs out, the couch groaning softly under her weight. Her feet skimmed the floor, toes brushing the edge of a puddle. “You look like you’ve been here before,” she said.

“Maybe,” I replied. “A long time ago.”

“Not long enough.”

The light shifted, dimming as a fresh wave of rain tapped against the broken glass. I studied her face more closely now, trying to pin down what felt off about her. She looked young, yes, but not in the way that made you think of school uniforms and scraped knees. There was something deliberate about her, the way she held herself, the way she watched me.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

Her lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “No one lives here.”

“But you’re here.”

“So are you.”

The bar creaked as I leaned against it, my hand brushing the tacky surface. The ghost of a beer pump still clung to the far end, its brass base tarnished and useless. I wondered how many pints it had pulled in its time. How many faces had leaned over this counter, how many secrets had been murmured into half-empty glasses.

“This place used to be packed,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Ale on every table, voices thick with smoke. The landlord shouting for closing time, and no one listening.”

“And now?” she asked, her voice cutting through the memory.

“Now it’s just you.”

Her fingers played idly with the edge of her skirt, tugging at a loose thread. “Not always,” she said.

The rain came harder now, a steady patter that filled the silence. I looked at her again, at the sharpness of her jaw, the faint smudge of dirt on her cheek. She wasn’t shivering, though it was cold enough to see my breath.

“How old are you?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head again, as though she was weighing the question. “Old enough,” she said finally.

“For what?”

“For this,” she replied, gesturing vaguely to the room around her.

The words unsettled me, though I couldn’t say why. She leaned back against the couch, her body sinking into the cracked leather. For a moment, she looked smaller, younger again. But then her eyes met mine, steady and sharp, and the illusion broke.

“You should go,” she said, her voice soft now.

I didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to start asking the wrong questions.”

I hesitated, my hand tightening on the edge of the bar. “And what happens if I do?”

She smiled then, faint and fleeting, like she already knew the answer. “You’ll find out.”

The room seemed to press in around us, the air thicker, the shadows heavier. Outside, the rain was relentless, washing the streets clean of something unseen.

I turned toward the door, the weight of her gaze following me. As I reached the threshold, she spoke again.

“You’ll be back,” she said.

I glanced over my shoulder. She was still on the couch, still watching, her body folded into itself like she’d never moved.

“Why would I come back?” I asked.

Her smile lingered, this time sharper, knowing. “Because you remember now.”

I stepped out into the rain, the city closing in around me. But her words stayed, clinging to the edges of my thoughts like the smell of that pub, like the faint sound of glass breaking underfoot.

And I knew she was right.