2

He wakes up in the morning and feels trapped, enveloped in grey mistiness of a sunless, lightless day. There are days when the sky is virtually the same color all the time, the same dull grey in the morning, afternoon and twilight – and pitch-dark at night. The clouds are thick and low, they seem to have a weight – they seem to physically press on one. Yet it never rains, and there is no proper wind – just occasional bursts of it; the air shifts erratically, whirling discarded papers on street corners, capturing dry fallen leaves and making them slide across the pavement with a weird tingling sound. The rain or the proper wind, if they would come, might bring with them some sense of release – some change, at least. But they never come, and the day remains still, unmoving, depressing.

It is such a day today. He knows it even before he opens his eyes – he just feels it in the air. He doesn't want to open his eyes, actually – there is not that much to see around to make it worth the effort. So he stays in bed for a while, awake but with his eyes closed, listening to the small sounds of the world around him; the ticking of an old clock standing in the corner of the bedroom, the cricking of some floorboards, which is always present in old houses, the buzzing of a late autumn fly in the next room; his own breathing. He lies very still, trying to keep the warmth; it is cold in the room, for yesterday, before going to bed, he left the window ajar: he hates the way air gets stiff in a closed room. Yet as the weather outside is cold and humid, the room is chilled now, and his bed feels ice-cold apart from the places where he warmed it – if he moves an arm or a leg, the sheets are cold as the inside of a grave.

Still not opening his eyes, he smiles a little twisted smile at the absurdity of his thought. How does he know what the inside of a grave feels like? It's not as if he ever been in one.

Well, if he is smiling and is ready to appreciate irony, then he might as well open his eyes. He does that, and the world is just as he expected it to be – grey. The ceiling of his room is grey, the fluffy bit of cobweb in the corner over the wardrobe is grey. The rectangle of the window – the piece of sky that shows in the upper frame that is visible from his bed, the one that he can see without making an effort of turning his head – is grey.

That bit of fluff in the corner – it is strange. He could have sworn he removed it yesterday. There can be no cobwebs in his house – he would never tolerate it, he is very tidy, even obsessively so. Yet there it is, in the corner, visible and very present. Perhaps he missed it, after all. Perhaps it was dark and he just missed it. That happens – even he can miss a bit of fluff in the dark corner.

Nevertheless, the irritation at this bit of cobweb makes him purse his lips. He is absurdly angry with himself for having missed it, and his body is filled with restlessness. He cannot lie in bed doing nothing with this bit of fluff sticking out as a sour thumb. He has to get up.

He lifts the blanket (linen, of course, no other kind is fit for a gentleman) and the duvet, which is dull purple, very muted and pleasing for the eye. The chilled air makes him shiver momentarily, but he ignores it: better that then the suffocating stiffness of the night air in an over-warm room, air filled with the smell of dust and his own sleeping body. He sits on the edge of the bed and glances at the window. Yes, the day is just as he expected it to be – grey and still, the clouds practically touching the glass, the withered leaves on top of the nearby trees just visible, looking as a blurred yellow smudge on an old watercolor. His eyes leave the window, and he looks at his legs, clad in silk pajama trousers, navy blue with thin white stripes, cut slightly longer then traditional pajama trousers, for he firmly believes that, just as proper suit trousers, pajama trousers should not show the ankle. Not that anyone would ever have a chance to see his pajama trousers or his ankles, but the point itself is important. His pajamas are exactly the right length to satisfy him, and to hide his misshapen right calf and ankle. He does not like the look of his leg. Whoever was fixing him after the accident did it badly. Strangely, he doesn't remember the accident, which left him a cripple – was it some road accident or a fall, grave enough to give him a memory loss? Did it happen when he was a child? He doesn't remember. Doesn't remember falling, or feeling the pain. Doesn't remember being in a hospital, recovering.

Come to that, he doesn't remember being a child.

Whatever – the sight of his injured leg makes him uneasy, dissatisfied – as if it was somehow his fault. It is absurd – no one can be blamed for being injured – but the feeling is there every time he looks at the scars and the slightly twisted bone, which never healed properly and always aches in bad weather, such as today.

He sighs; well, one has to live through a day no matter what the weather is like. The soles of his bare feet touch the carpet – he likes the feeling, so he pauses a moment before finding his brown leather slippers – they are cold on the inside, chilled out as everything else in the room. Then he reaches for the cane, which stood all night by the side table. He has to lean on it quite heavily to stand up.

He limps towards the wardrobe, over which the offending fluff is hiding, and reaches to remove it with the end of the cane. This will not do – he has to wrap something around the cane – a cloth. To get the cloth, he will have to go out to the kitchen downstairs. Oh, this is so frustrating. He looks around irritably, searching for something – there is nothing in the room that can help him. With an angry sigh he takes a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket; this will have to do, he'll wash it later, or throw it away.

Now, there it is: the fluff is removed. He puts the crumpled handkerchief on the table, and walks towards the window. He opens it wider, ignoring the sudden gust of wind, and throws the fluff out. Much better. This is much, much better. Now he can start the day properly.

Yet he pauses at the window for several long moments, looking out into the garden. It is not a proper garden – he is not a man to potter with plants or flowers. But there is a spot of grass, and several apple trees, and a cherry, which never brings any fruit, and a rosebush. A look at it makes him smile; the stubborn plant sports a lonely flower – a tiny white rose, almost a bud. The last flower of the year. The little fighter, destined to die out in the cold.

Looking at the flower, he gets the strangest feeling. He is certain – much more certain than he was about the cobweb, which he might have missed, after all – that he saw it already. That he stood by his window already, looking at the flower, musing on its fragility. Not only that – he went into the garden later, and picked it, and placed it on the table in a small vase. Didn't he?

He turns around and looks at the side table. It is empty apart from the lamp, his book and his reading glasses. There is no vase with a small white rose.

But it was there! He remembers – he clearly remembers picking it up, and pricking his finger on the thorn. He lifts his hand to get a closer look – no, there is no sign of a prick. But it did happen. If he closes his eyes, it will all come back to him – the biting frost in the night air, the gentle fragrance of the rose, and the pain in his finger. It is all so real.

He opens his eyes. The rose is on the bush. His finger is unharmed. The table is empty.

This is real.

He is imagining things.

He must be going mad. They say it happens sooner or later if you live alone.

His heart is beating very fast, and he can see that his hand is shaking. It is panic – the onset of panic. But it is irrational. This fear is irrational – there is no reason for that. Perhaps he did see the flower yesterday, and thought of picking it up, but didn't, yet the idea lingered, and in his mind he was convinced that the whole thing actually happened? Yes, this is a reasonable, sound explanation. Much more convincing than the thought that he is going mad. Why would he go mad? He is a completely normal, rational person, with a very ordered, very structured life. A life that he should commence living now, by the way. He has to take a shower, to dress, to prepare for the day – it is an important day today, the day when he collects the rent from the people to whom he leases various properties, and he has many house calls to make. He likes to visit his debtors himself, not make them come to the shop. He doesn't like it when a lot of people come to his shop – they intrude on his privacy. It is not a very commercial attitude, he knows, but then it is obvious that he doesn't keep the shop so that it would bring in money. His wealth comes from other sources; the shop is something that gives him pleasure. Collecting debts also gives him pleasure, but of a slightly different nature – he likes the sense of power that owning people installs in him.

Well, if you can't be loved, it is better to be feared. At least there is some emotion it that. When people fear you and hate you at least you can be sure that they are aware of your existence.

Registering this thought, he smiles to himself; living alone might or might not drive you mad, but it definitely makes you repeat the same thought over and over again. He is certain that he has been thinking along these lines recently – a month ago, most probably; it was the last time when he was due to collect the rent.

Anyway, it is pointless to dwell on human nature when there are so many things to do. He closes the window, casting one last glance at the white rose and making a mental note to come and have a look at it in the evening, and limps to the bathroom. The time that he spent in idle thoughts by the window means that he will have to take a shower now – no time for a bath. He takes off his pajama, leaving it on the chair, and carefully negotiates his way into the bath, cursing his bad leg; he seems strangely aware of it today, his own limp irritates him, as if he is not completely used to it. That is odd – he has been lame as long as he can remember himself, and yet it still gives him some awkward feeling.

He takes his shower very hot – the sting of the hot water helps to ease the tension in his back, brought on by constant limping. Stepping under the water, he sighs, and then leans against the tiled wall. It is early morning yet, why does he feel so tired already? It must be the weather – it is so still and weird, it seems to promise all sorts of things, but those promises come to nothing.

Shower taken, he carefully steps out of the bath, dries himself and walks towards the sink to shave and brush his teeth. Towel-drying his hair, he glances at himself in the mirror and wonders if he needs a haircut – the grey on his temples is too noticeable, and the locks on the back are overlong. The style is getting too fancy for his age and respectable trade. But then, who cares about his looks? People don't come to him for the pleasure of his company. Need brings them to him. And in times of need, people don't notice the face of the person who helps them. They hardly notice the person at all – they only care for themselves and their immediate concerns. He is just a tool, a means to an end.

So, he decides against a haircut. No one will care, anyway.

When he is shaved, his teeth are brushed and his over-long dump hair is combed he walks back to the room. The task at hand is important – he has to dress for the day, and the way he would do it is all-important. He has a sort of belief – a superstition, if you want to put it like that, – that the way we dress affects the whole sequence of the day's events. The clothes he puts on are a message to the world – the armor against it – the image he wants to project.

Well, what shall it be today – what is he going to say to the world with the way he is dressed? He opens the old wardrobe (three doors, built of dark wood and decorated with some bizarre carvings, with a full-length mirror on the central panel) and has a careful look at his shirts. His mood is a bit odd, uncertain – he is inclined to choose a shirt of some complicated color. This very dark, almost dirty plum-colored one will do. Now, for the tie – he has a large number of them but only three that will go nicely with the shirt he has chosen. He muses over a huge tie rack, which occupies the whole space on the back of the central wardrobe door. Instinctively his hand reaches for the dark metallic grey tie with golden spots on it – an obvious choice, and a very good one. But it is also a safe choice, and somehow his early morning incident with 'remembered' flower in a vase makes him unwilling to do what is expected of him – even if it is something that he expects of himself. No, he will go for something a bit less obvious – slightly daring even. He picks a red tie – not a very bright red, this color should be called a 'muted scarlet', perhaps. It is much brighter then the color of the shirt, and it will light up the whole color scheme, make it brighter and bolder.

It is such a dull grey day, after all – he needs to do something to light it up, at least for himself. Let this tie be his little private joke. The socks he chooses to go along with the tie and a shirt are grey, but have tiny plum stripes on them – that extends the joke further, but makes it even more private; there is no way anyone will ever see these socks and note their striking color.

Sufficiently cheered by his choice of garments, he dresses up quickly, putting on a dark grey suit and black shoes, picks up his cane and walks downstairs to the kitchen. He has no appetite, and anyway he has lost too much time musing over ties and human oddities, his own included; so he decides to skip breakfast today – even brewing tea seems like an unnecessary waste of time. He walks through the hallway, puts on his black coat, and goes out.

What a bleak day – colorless, chilly, unpleasant. Still, one has to live it through – things have to be done.

He walks up the Main street, mentally mapping his way around town – he does have a lot of calls to make and, with his leg, he has to do it efficiently, so as not to walk more than he has to. The people on the Main Street get visited first, naturally. The grocer's (here he collects the rent and buys a couple of apples – he is particular about apples and likes to have one sometimes), the drugstore, with its' ever-sniffing dwarf of an owner, the flower shop with the hateful red-faced oaf that runs it, the garage, the bar. The local carpenter gets spared for the time being, though he sees him: the old man is busy, he is mending some broken sign and commenting about it 'falling again' in heavily accented English – Marco is Italian. He methodically visits all the places on his way, giving the owners their share of his politely cold smile, and collects the money. The flower-fellow couldn't pay – apparently the flower trade is not very active this time of year, and the only way he can work around the existing debt is to get into a bigger one: he pawns his van. The deal is straight – if he doesn't pay double next month, he will lose the vehicle. It is a pleasure to see his stupid face go even redder than it usually is at the very thought of this.

Oh well, he will lose that van. The man is incredibly stupid and can't see a step ahead.

Immediately by the flower-shop something unusual attracts his attention. There is a shop – a small shop selling gentlemen's clothing; rather nice, with an elegant narrow window displaying some shirts and ties. The place is dark and dusty and looks as it has always been here.

Yet he doesn't remember ever seeing it before.

That is distinctly odd.

The shop is in the Main Street, that means that he owns the land on which the building stands, the building itself – everything. So he must have visited it regularly to collect the rent. Yet everything about the little shop is unfamiliar, as if he's never been here before.

He feels very uncomfortable – disturbed, even. What sort of a day is he having – remembering the flower, which he didn't pick up, and forgetting a piece of his own property?

To check himself up, he walks to the shop. It is open – the sign on the glass door says 'Push', so he pushes and comes in. The place looks empty and dark, until a small fellow – the owner, apparently, emerges from the back room and greets him cheerfully: 'Mr. Gold, I have been expecting you! I have the rent ready, but there is also some good news – your order has arrived'.

He is completely baffled. 'My order?'

The man nods enthusiastically. 'Yes! Those ties that you wanted delivered from London – here they are. Straight from Savile Row, just as you like them'.

Proudly, he puts a dark leather case on the counter and opens it. It is full of ties – many, many colorful silken rolls of ties, exceptionally good ones, indeed. Well they would be exceptionally good, if he ordered them.

It's just so very odd that he doesn't recall the fact at all.

Oh well, if the ties are here, and are his, he might as well collect them. Absentmindedly he picks the case, only half-listening to the owners banter about his 'extraordinary taste'. He nods, takes the rent (there is no question of paying for the ties – perhaps he did pay in advance, or may be the owner is just so afraid of him that he dares not mention the money?), and leaves.

He will have to stop by his own shop now – he cannot go around town with a case full of ties; that would seem strange. That means he will have to make a detour, but it doesn't matter. If his planned money-collecting walk is broken, anyway, he might just have a spot of early lunch – he did miss breakfast, after all.

When he enters Granny's Diner, a silence falls around him – brief, but noticeable. No wonder, the place is full of people whom he visited already, or is going to visit later, and most likely they are not looking forward to his visit. People are strange; they always expect to get something for nothing, and when things don't work out to their liking, they blame the man who helped them – for a price, of course. They do rent from him his houses – they owe him a chance to own a business, to earn a living. Why do they resent the fact that they have to pay him? Isn't it a natural order of things – a straightforward deal? And his are simple deals, mind it – no catch in them; with Mr. Gold, you get exactly what you paid for.

He shrugs his shoulders, and orders a burger. Granny gives him a sour look and charges extra for something or other that goes with the dish. He does wonder why the old lady is so resentful, always – he doesn't recall offending her in any way. Well, may be she is just upset about her granddaughter – the girl seems to be a handful, practically running wild and hardly ever spending a night at home.

Regina Mills comes in, and joins him at his table – not that he invited her or even indicated any joy at seeing her, but she never pays heed to such minor details.

She gives him a smile – flashy, yet a bit uncertain, it seems. 'Well, Mr. Gold, how are you today?'

'Very well, thank you, Madam Mayor'. Shall he put her off? He doesn't want to talk to her, not really. But then, it is probably better to learn what she wants.

'Great day, isn't it?' Her eyes are shining – there is definitely something on her mind, but there is no way of telling what it is yet.

He shrugs his shoulders. 'I don't see anything particularly great about it. Seems like a perfectly ordinary day to me – in fact, it seems very much like yesterday'.

What prompts him to say that? Today is not like yesterday – today is a specific, distinctive day, the day when he collects the rent. Yesterday was different.

Wasn't it?

What was yesterday like?

He doesn't remember. He is shocked; he realizes that yesterday has left no memory in his mind – nothing but a recollection of picking up a small white rose from the bush in his garden.

The only thing he remembers about yesterday is something that never happened.

How odd.

Meanwhile, his innocent words make Regina grow pale, though very slightly. 'Does it?' Her voice is uncertain – she seems to be questioning him, somehow.

'Indeed it does'. It seems important to him to keep up the pretense of being unshakably sure of himself. She mustn't notice his disorientation.

'Well, if you say so'. Her brow creases. Looking at him attentively, she says suddenly: 'Nice tie. Very smart'.

He inclines his head a little, slightly embarrassed by this rather personal remark – and also shaken by the recollection of the strange episode with the clothes shop. 'Thank you. I must confess that it is a little difficult to procure proper ties in this part of the world. The State of Maine is not particularly famous for the fashion sense of its inhabitants. But I manage'.

'Yes', she attempts to smile again. 'Yes, I am sure you do. Well, it was nice seeing you'.

She stands up and walks out.

Disturbed and mystified, he finishes his meal and leaves, too.

Halfway to his shop he remembers that he didn't collect the rent from Granny. Well, he will have to come to her hotel later this evening, than. That is rather unfortunate – another unnecessary detour, just what his leg doesn't need. But if he made a mistake, he has to bear the consequences.

Yet, despite his discomfort and irritation with himself and with the world in general, being in his shop makes him feel better. It is such a cozy and pleasant place; to an outsider it might look dark and gloomy, perhaps – it is filled with such a strange assortment of objects. But to him, it is a haven – a shelter from anything and everything unpleasant. The things he collected here mean something to him – they are his friends, fateful as no human being can ever be. Sometimes he feels that they can talk to him – whisper little things, sending him messages, telling their stories.

Walking around the shop, touching this and that, gradually calming down he suddenly stops, staring at the wall, not really seeing it. A thought just came to him – not for the very first time today, but much clearer and therefore more frightening.

He is seeing things that never happened. He doesn't remember things he should remember. He believes that antique junk talks to him.

May be he is going mad? Really, truly mad?

He stands motionless for a while, trying to process this thought. They say that if a person is aware that something odd is happening to him, then he is not too far-gone – the truly mad people always deny their illness. Well, he is definitely aware of his problems, so there must be hope for him. Still – something has to be done about it, has it not? A man cannot just go mad, fully aware of his condition and just calmly observing himself going beyond the edge?

But then – what can be done about it? All right, he might go to doctor Hopper – his office is quite close – and present him with a problem. But the doctor is such a meek, ineffectual man. He will not be able to do anything. He'll just be scared out of his wits.

That's what happens to you if you are really, truly lonely. You are in trouble, and you have no one to help you. You don't even have anyone to talk to. You only have yourself, and if you are losing yourself, then there is no hope for you.

He looks around him – rather wildly. The familiar surroundings don't comfort him right now. He feels so very uncertain – of himself and everything around him.

And then he sees himself – catches a glimpse of himself in an old, polished copper mirror that hangs on the opposite wall. In its' uneven yellowish surface his face gets distorted – he looks wild and weird, his skin an odd green color, his hair ruffled, a manic grin on his lips.

He looks frightening. And at the same time oddly familiar.

And he hears a voice – a child's voice, uncertain and scared. 'Papa', it says, 'what is the matter? What happened to you? What are you doing?'

'I am protecting you. Do you feel safe?' That is his voice. He is answering this child – this little scared boy.

And then the pain comes – the physical pain representing some unremembered loss, which left a void in his soul, a hollow space impossible to heal or to fill in.

Oh God. What on earth is happening to him?

This has to stop. He has to get a grip of himself – has to collect himself somehow.

He shuts his eyes tightly, his hands clenched into fists. He tries to breathe normally – tries to calm down. When he opens his eyes again, the vision of the oddly familiar monster in the mirror is gone. He is looking at his normal self.

He looks a bit shaken, but that is only to be expected.

Resolutely ignoring his fears and his confusion, he walks to the back of the shop, into his working room. He should perform some simple manual task that shall calm him down. It always does.

There is a book on his working desk – a book of fairy tales that he has been repairing… yesterday.

Oh yes. It did happen yesterday. He remembers it very clearly now. He took this book from a shelf, examined it, he started working on it… And then he had a vision – just like today.

There was a yesterday.

Only it was exactly like today.

He woke up in the morning, and he noticed a rose on the bush. He dressed – he put on a different tie! – he went to town, collecting the rent. He dined at Granny's and talked to Regina about ties. He came to work here. He walked back to his house and he did pick up the rose, and placed it on the table by his bed. And it was somehow gone this morning, back on the bush, and today he lived through a day which was as like the day before as it was possible.

But how can it be possible? It isn't. So, he is back to where he started – admitting to himself that he is losing his mind. Either that, or it is some magical trick. But there is no magic in the world, so the madness option is much more feasible.

Yet apparently there is nothing to be done about it. That is, he can't ask anyone to help him – he simply doesn't have anyone to share the problem with. He will have to fight it alone.

He believes in human mind. He believes in his own mind. The mind is very powerful, and it can be controlled and disciplined. Emotions could be reined in – restrained. A structure can and must be installed. And it will be. They say that he is the most powerful man in town – he controls everyone. Surely he can control himself?

Taking a deep breath, he walks towards the desk and sets to work on his book. He planned to repair it, and so he will.

He works on the book for several hours without any odd happenings and, when he is very tired and much calmed down, he leaves the rest of the work for later – for tomorrow. He picks the case with his new ties, locks the shop, and walks to Granny's hotel to collect her rent.

Coming home, he deliberately walks around the house, comes into the garden and picks the white rose – he is careful not to prick his finger this time around. Right, there is no 'this time around', it is an illusion of his demented brain, but he can't fight all illusions at once – for now he will have to accept some of them and discard them one by one later.

The rose is exquisite – delicate and lovely and sweet. He puts it into a small vase, which he takes from the cupboard, and places it at a kitchen table; later on he will carry it upstairs to his room. Now he wants to make some tea – it was a difficult day, he needs to unwind a little bit.

He puts a kettle on fire, opens the cupboard again, and picks a cup.

'Oh, I am sorry – it's chipped. You can hardly see it!..' 'Oh, it's just a cup, dearie…'

He hears the voices this time – one of them is his voice. And he sees the face – her face.

The pain is so sharp that he sways, and drops his cane, and has to grip the side of the kitchen table to support himself.

Quickly he puts the cup back on the shelf.

No tea tonight.

He turns off the gas, and walks up to his room. He feels shaken and drained.

Slowly, as in a haze, he takes off his clothes – every movement is painful. He puts on his pajamas and his robe, and he sits in a chair with his night cup of good cognac.

What a strange day it was. What a strange, strange day.

He finishes his drink, and drags himself to the bathroom to rinse the glass and to brush his teeth. He gets into bed, completely exhausted. He switches off the light, and looks at the luminous white flower on his side-table – bright in the dark, like a little star.

He drifts into sleep, but it is not dreamless this time. In his dream, he sees a girl – he cannot see her face, just a yellow dress and auburn hair, for she has turned her back to him. She is walking away from him, slowly, but surely, and he cannot catch up with her, for he is crippled – he cannot hurry up, because he has misplaced his cane. He wants to call out for her, to ask her to slow down and wait for him. But he cannot – he doesn't remember her name.

When he wakes up, his face is stained with tears.

It is still dark outside – it is still night-time.

The rose is still standing on the table by his bed.

He is sure he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep now. But somehow he does, and this time his sleep is dreamless.