Simon Ghost Riley

The cottage village you used to visit on weekends was your favorite place. Today, you woke up early because of the expected midday heat and went to pick raspberries, scratching your forearms and fingers. The basket went to the cellar, and you headed to the water to freshen up.

Passing the nearest house, you noticed a car — a gray Wrangler that had seen better days. A man stood sideways, frowning as he leaned on a cane and lowered himself into the driver’s seat.

— Your rear tire is punctured.

You said softly and stopped. The new neighbor glanced at you with distrust, but after spotting the damage and giving it an even more suspicious look, he thanked you. You tactfully asked:

— Can I help you?

In response — silence and a bitter smirk. You pressed your lips together and nodded, understanding without words. A brief «goodbye» and a moment later you were descending the slope toward the river, pulling a towel and sunglasses from your bag.

That evening, a bowl of ice cream topped with raspberries sat in front of you. Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shattering glass.

You looked out the window just as a fight broke out on your neighbor’s doorstep, wisely turning off the room light so your silhouette wouldn’t be visible. One shadow slammed into the fence, the other fell and didn’t move again. You watched as the man leaning against the porch raised something in his hand — you clearly recognized a pistol with a suppressor. A quiet click, and now both lay still. Your fingers dialed the emergency number, but the light from your phone screen illuminated your face — and it didn’t go unnoticed.

— Don’t be afraid. Come down, and I’ll explain everything.

You froze. Fear from what you’d just witnessed clashed with the urge to trust his calm voice.

— I served in intelligence. Now… I’m not what I used to be. Those people — they’re ghosts from the past.

Go down to him or call the police. Your choice?