Hyacinth

Part 1

He only came on nights when it rained. The raindrops would rap against the window glass, the air would be cool and smell so wonderfully crisp, and there he would stand: A tall, slender figure obscured by an umbrella, silhouetted by the headlights of passing cars.

The first time Grillby thought nothing of it. It took hours for him to even notice that the dark figure standing in front of the window of the bar had been there for all night. A little odd, perhaps. But then again, Grillby could easily spin up a dozen of reasons for a stranger to stand outside his bar. Maybe he was waiting for the rain to let up in the shelter of the folded in terrace roof. Maybe he had agreed to meet someone, and the neon letters served as a beacon to mark the place of the encounter. Maybe...

Maybe, maybe, maybe. The stranger outside his window had nothing to do with him. So Grillby decided to think nothing of it and concentrate on his customers.

Yes, once means nothing. Once is something to observe, to wonder, to forget.

Twice is a coincidence.

On the third time Grillby began to feel like he should do something about the situation. Someone else might have charged outside to face the stranger. Not Grillby. Partially because of the rain, partially because, well, there is nothing wrong with standing on the street in the rain, and there still was a chance that to the stranger outside, Grillby's was just a bar among others. Just a meaningless backdrop to whatever he was doing. And it was none of Grillby's business to interfere.

That doubt was quickly shaken off once Grillby took the time to observe the figure in the rain. All this time he had thought that the other just stood under his umbrella. No. He watched as the stranger shifted his weight from one leg to the other, turned, and walked to the door. Grillby waited a beat, two. But the door didn't open, and the figure returned to his spot with hasty steps.

This repeated a total of three, maybe four times during the whole evening. Eventually the stranger walked into the rain, and Grillby was left to wonder what he should do. There were still reasons, rational reasons that had nothing to do with Grillby himself for someone to act like that. Maybe the stranger was trying to overcome a terrible shyness, and was gathering his courage to come to a place filled with people. Maybe he was a curious human who wanted to visit a monster bar, but didn't quite dare to walk in. Maybe maybe maybe.

The next night was clear, and the stranger didn't come. And so was the night after that. Grillby didn't know if he wanted the figure outside his window to stay away or not.

But then it rained again. And there he was, standing outside, his back to the bar window, sheltered by an umbrella.

And at this point Grillby was very much done second-guessing. He finished the orders he had at hand, took a quick glance to make sure he could afford to abandon his post behind the bar counter for a minute or two, and headed outside.

As the he opened the door the sound of rain hit him full force, raindrops beating into the glistening asphalt. The smell was powerful, what was that word, that long complicated word- petrichor.

And in the rain stood the stranger. He was wearing a long black coat, long enough to almost reach the ground, and the umbrella in his pale hands was just as black. Pale hands, no, they were white, white spindly phalanges gripping the handle tight, large round holes in the centre of his palms.

The stranger, alerted by the sound of the door opening, turned to look at Grillby in return. The umbrella lifted higher, out of the way. Two cracks marred the round, smooth skull, one from the top of the head the right eye socket, one connecting the other to a thin mouth. The eye sockets were large, and they were staring at Grillby. Like a deer caught in headlights.