The Midnight Caller

Brandt wasn’t expecting anyone when the soft knocking filled his tiny apartment. It was ten minutes to midnight, the chicken curry he'd just finished was still steaming in the sink, and his PJs clung comfortably to his skin. "Yeah, who is it?" he called out, tugging his hood tighter. Beyond the door, the streetlights painted glowing circles on the wet pavement. "A friend," came the muffled reply. "Friend, huh?" Anytime anyone showed up unannounced, it was never good. Especially at this hour. Brandt took a deep breath and opened the door. The man was older, heavy through the shoulders, wearing a trench coat that had seen better days. His eyes were sharp, yet familiar, like when you catch your own reflection off-guard. "Brandt?" "Yes, that's me..." The man gave a tight-lipped grin and handed over an old photograph—the kind your grandparents keep, with faded edges and cracked faces. Unable to stop himself, Brandt took it. "Recognize them? The ones on the right," the man continued. Brandt stared down. His heartbeat quickened. It was a photo of four people: three were strangers, but the woman on the right was unmistakable. His mother, from over thirty years ago. Next to her, the unmistakable shape of her brooch. "I don't understand," Brandt croaked. "What is this?" The man took a step back, letting the shadows stretch across his features. "A secret. One your family never intended you to find out," he whispered. "Walk with me." Before Brandt's mind could compile an objection, his feet followed. Down the staircase, past the narrow alley that still bore remnants of the night's rain, and into a world that was gradually losing its flickering certainty. "You remind me of Ronnie," the man said as they walked the deserted sidewalk. "Swore he saw ghosts everywhere." "Who's Ronnie?" "A name they tried to forget. He was persistent, liked your mom a lot. Until, well..." Brandt forced his eyes up from the photo, where the shadows seemed alive now, growing, distorting everything ever so slightly. "And you're saying he's got something to do with me?" Brandt's voice hovered between accusation and confusion. "Only everything. He knew things. Things your father replaced with lies. Things that kept your family safe but, well, that's a tricky thing. Lies like diseases once they start spreading, y'know." Rich blue neon lights splattered off the wet road, illuminating a shabby bar front. The sign flickered: "The Rusted Compass." "This is where it all began, and where it all ends." Brandt swallowed. "And why should I trust you, stranger? What do you gain?" "I gain closure, just like you. Besides," the man's eyes sparkled with mischief, "truth is better than comfort, even if it sucks." Brandt sighed, stepping inside. The place felt timeless—dusty TVs murmuring in the background, the tang of stale beer mingling with memories. He saw the ghost of smiles, laughter swallowed by shadows. Sifting through the noise, the man pointed to a dusty jukebox. "Ask it." Brandt, spun between disbelief and madness, approached. It was louder than anything else in this cacophony of distorted memories. "Jesus, this thing gonna talk or something?" The man snorted. "It'll tell you your song. Might help those flickering pieces line up." Rolling his eyes, Brandt hesitated, then punched in D5. Vinyl crackled, and music groaned to life. A melancholy tune wove its way through layers of mysterious connections, hinting at voices he thought he'd forgotten. Suddenly, pieces tumbled into place: childhood picnics, stolen moments in the attic, that last family reunion—bits he'd locked away, now underlined by this haunting melody. Pulling in a ragged breath, Brandt looked towards his guide. The older man nodded mutely, as if to say, \"Feels like home now, don't it?" Meanwhile, every subtle element—each arcane note—echoed back. "I don't know who really was, but I need to," Brandt whispered, his voice cracking. "Sometimes knowing isn't as big as you think," the stranger muttered, finally fading back into the night. Brandt lingered, heart swelling and aching as he gazed at the cracked photo. In its simplicity, every shadow, every mystery shifted towards closure.