Chapter 2: The Man Under the Fan

As soon as he finished, a man walked in. His skin was the color of old paper, and his eyes had the flat, tired look of someone who hadn’t slept in weeks.

His boots tracked in muddy water, leaving little puddles that reflected the flicker of the fluorescent lights. He wore a raincoat too thin for the weather and smelled faintly of damp earth and something metallic. The bell over the door let out a weak chime.

Grandpa smiled and asked, "Hey there, what can I get you?"

His smile was the practiced one he gave every customer, polite but wary. I could tell by the way he stood a little straighter, putting himself between the man and Grandma.

The man glanced at Grandpa and smiled. "Sir, I came to your store two years ago. Don’t you remember me?"

He spoke softly, almost too calm, as if testing how much Grandpa remembered. He wiped a hand down his wet sleeve, water dripping onto the tile.

Grandpa stared at him, then forced a laugh. "A lot of people come through here. Hard to remember them all."

His voice was steady, but I saw the quick flick of his eyes, searching for any sign this was more than just a late-night regular.

The man said, "Two years ago, I was looking for a kid and got into a fight with someone eating here. It almost turned deadly."

A heavy silence filled the store. Even the rain seemed to hush for a moment, like it was listening in.

Grandpa laughed, "Now I remember. Your wife was with you, right?"

He asked, "Did you find the kid?"

The man smiled, "Not yet, but I got some news."

He said it like he was ordering his last meal. His lips curled in a way that made it hard to tell if he was happy or not. There was something about his eyes—dark and tired, but sharp.

Grandpa nodded, "News is good. Did you come alone?"

He kept his voice friendly, but there was a nervous tap of his fingers on the countertop—a habit I’d noticed when he was uneasy.

The man replied, "No, my wife’s right behind me. She’ll be here soon. Sir, I’d like two bowls of noodles and a pint of whiskey. I heard your whiskey’s good—gonna try it tonight."

He gave a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Something about the way he said it made me think he’d been waiting for this night a long time.

Grandpa smiled, "Alright, coming right up."

He nodded at Grandma. "Could you grab the whiskey from the back, hon?"

Grandma nodded and headed to the back room.

She wiped her hands on her apron as she walked, shooting Grandpa a quick, worried glance. The back room door creaked as she disappeared inside.

Grandpa smiled, "Sir, have a seat. I’ll get cooking. Food’ll be ready soon."

He pointed toward the battered diner stools lined up along the counter, then disappeared into the kitchen, humming a tuneless little song that meant he was anxious.

With that, he went to the back, leaving just me and the man in the store.

The sound of pots and pans clattering drifted in from the kitchen, but it felt like all the air in the store had thickened. The man’s coat dripped steadily onto the floor, forming a dark pool at his feet.

The man looked around, then picked the seat right under the fan.

He brushed off the seat with the back of his hand, not seeming to mind the chill in the air, and settled into the spot like he belonged there.

He sat in the exact spot where the second son had been when the accident happened.

The stool wobbled slightly under his weight. I noticed the way his eyes kept drifting up to the fan, as if he knew the story behind it.

Since it was cold and rainy, the fan was off.

But the wind blowing in made the fan creak and groan.

A draft slipped in through the front door, making the fan blades sway just enough to squeak. It was a small sound, but in the quiet, it felt enormous.

The blades trembled a little but didn’t spin.

The man looked at me and said, in a low voice, "Kid, turn on the fan. I’m burning up."

His eyes were cold, like he was mad about something, and it made him scary.

His tone was sharp, like someone who hadn’t slept in days and was running on nerves alone. The flicker of fluorescent light caught the sweat on his brow.

I whispered, "It’s freezing and raining. Why turn on the fan?"