The bell above the door of the 'Clip & Sip' jingled its tinny farewell as Mrs. Gable left, the scent of her lavender perfume and hairspray lingering in the warm, humid air. Elijah Jones let out a long, slow breath, the sound loud in the sudden quiet of the shop. The smile he'd worn for the last hour, easy and wide, relaxed into a softer, more weary line.
"You take care now, Maggie," he called after her, his voice still carrying that deep, resonant warmth. He locked the door and flipped the sign to 'Closed'. 4:05 p.m. An hour early. He never closed early.
The shop was his sanctuary. It was spotless. The black and white checkered floor was swept clean of every clipped grey and brown hair. The three vintage barber chairs, heavy chrome and red leather, gleamed under the warm glow of the pendant lights. The shelves were lined with tonics, potions, and powders in glass bottles, everything in its precise place. Order. Control. It was everything the inside of his head was not.
He walked to the last chair, the one by the window, and sank into it. The leather sighed under his weight. For a few minutes, he just sat, watching the world go by outside. People hurrying home from work, kids kicking a scuffed football against a wall, the usual slow crawl of traffic. Normal life.
His right hand began to tremble.
It was a faint, almost imperceptible vibration at first. He stared at it, his expression neutral, as if observing a curious insect. He willed it to stop. The command traveled from his brain down the nerves to his muscles, a simple message: Be still.
The tremor intensified. A slight, rhythmic tapping of his middle finger against the chair's armrest. Tap. Tap. Tap.
He closed his large hand into a fist, squeezing until the knuckles turned white and the tendons stood out in ridges on his dark skin. The physical pressure fought the nervous energy, containing it. He held it like that for a full minute, his breath held, his focus absolute. This was a daily battle, a private war fought in the quiet moments between customers, behind a locked door.
Slowly, he released his fist. The hand was still. For now.
He stood up, the movement a little too abrupt, and went to the small sink in the back to wash the last of the talcum powder from his hands. The water was scalding hot. He scrubbed methodically, up to the wrists, watching the subs swirl down the drain. The ritual calmed him.
On a small shelf above the sink, next to the spare razors, was a framed photograph. It showed a younger Elijah, his smile even brighter, if that were possible, his arm thrown around the shoulders of two other young men in desert camouflage. They were squinting in the harsh sun, leaning against the dusty side of an armoured vehicle. They looked invincible.
Elijah didn't look at the picture. He didn't need to. He knew every pixel by heart. He knew the name of the man on his left (Reynolds, with the crooked nose) and the man on his right (Choi, who could play any Hendrix riff on his guitar). He knew the exact feel of the grit in the air that day, the taste of the warm bottled water. He knew what happened twelve hours after that photo was taken.
A car backfired on the street outside.
Elijah flinched so violently he dropped the soap. It wasn't a jump. It was a full-body recoil, a sudden drop into a crouch, his head ducked, his hands coming up defensively for a fraction of a second. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, bird-like flutter.
Silence.
Just a car. An old banger misfiring. It happened all the time.
He stayed crouched for a moment, breathing hard, feeling the flush of shame heat his face. He was safe. In his barbershop. In Anchorhead. He was a long way from the dust and the noise. He repeated it to himself like a mantra. You are safe. You are home.
Slowly, he uncoiled, retrieving the soap and placing it carefully back in its dish. His hands were steady again. The adrenaline had burned through the tremor.
He finished cleaning up, his movements precise, economical. He ran a clipper over his own head, the buzz a familiar vibration, shaving away the faint shadow of hair. Maintenance. Control.
His gaze fell on a letter on the small desk he used for bookkeeping. It was from the Veterans Affairs office. It had arrived a week ago. He hadn't opened it yet. He knew what it was; another reminder for a mandatory check-in, another assessment. They wanted to talk about his sleep, his mood, his "adjustment to civilian life." He couldn't bear the thought of the kind, condescending voice of the therapist, the gentle probing questions that felt like surgical instruments poking at a wound that would never heal.
He picked up the envelope. His thumb ran over the official logo. Then, with a quiet, decisive motion, he opened the top drawer of the desk and dropped the letter inside, atop a small pile of identical, unopened envelopes. He shut the drawer firmly.
Enough. The day was done.
He pulled on his jacket—a heavy, practical thing—and turned off the lights, plunging the orderly shop into darkness. He stepped out into the cool evening air, locking the door behind him with a solid, final thunk.
He stood on the pavement for a moment, looking up and down the street. His eyes scanned the rooftops, the alleys, a habit so ingrained he didn't even know he was doing it. He nodded to old Mr. Peters who was walking his terrier. "Evening, Eli," the old man rasped.
"Evening, sir. Take care now."
He began the short walk home, his shoulders slightly hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He passed the supermarket, the pub, the newsagent. He saw Leo's light on in his window above the pawn shop. A fellow night-walker. He felt a kinship there, a shared understanding of the quiet hours.
His own house was a small, end-of-terrace place a few streets over. It was neat, the tiny patch of front garden trimmed. It was just him. Had been for years. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, immediately engaging the deadbolt and sliding the heavy security chain into place. The sound was comforting.
The house was dark and silent. He didn't turn on the main light. He moved through the familiar spaces to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and stood drinking it at the sink, looking out into his small, dark backyard.
The fog was creeping up from the water. He could see it now, a solid bank of white nosing its way between the houses at the bottom of the street. It was thicker than he'd ever seen it. It had a presence, a weight. It felt… hungry.
He frowned. Just the weather. Anchorhead was built on fog. It was nothing.
He finished his water, placed the glass neatly in the sink, and headed upstairs. His routine was unvaried. A shower. A chapter of a book. Then, the night. The long, dark stretch of it, where the control he wielded so carefully during the day slipped away, and the noises in his head were louder than the silence in the house.
As he climbed the stairs, he didn't see the tendril of mist that had already reached his back gate. It slipped through the wooden slats, a silent, patient explorer, and began to pool in his garden, obscuring the neat lawn and the single, lonely patio chair.
It was just fog. Nothing to worry about.
Elijah closed his bedroom door, shutting out the world, and began the nightly ritual of preparing for a war he hoped, every night, he wouldn't have to fight again.