Resolve : Episode 1 : Same old, same old?

Chapter 1: Routine Begins

The low hum of streetlights crept through Paul’s small flat, blending with the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Paul lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his eyes tracing faint water stains he’d memorised months ago. He wasn’t sure what had woken him - the noise outside or his own restless thoughts.

He rolled over, squinting at the pale numbers of his alarm clock: 6:48 a.m. Two minutes before it usually buzzed him awake. Another day, another start.

Paul swung his legs out of bed, wincing as his feet met the cold floor. His flat was modest - one bedroom, a small kitchen, and a cramped living area cluttered with bookshelves. The spines of novels, many faded and cracked, lined the walls, accompanied by stacks of records near his old turntable. A jazz album sat on the player, its needle resting just above the grooves, as if waiting for Paul to press play.

He shuffled into the kitchen, the tap dripping faintly in the sink. He poured himself coffee from the old pot, the bitter aroma filling the air. On the table sat an open notebook, its pages blank except for two words written at the top of the first page: What now?

Paul stared at the question as he sipped his coffee. The street below was quiet, save for the faint sound of footsteps. He leaned against the window, watching the same man walk the same dog, his movements too precise, too predictable. The dog didn’t sniff or pause - just followed obediently, its leash taut. Paul frowned, a flicker of unease stirring. He shook it off, grabbing his coat and heading for the door.

Chapter 2: Mrs. Kinsley’s Errands

The morning air was sharp and crisp, a light frost clinging to the edges of parked cars. Paul knocked on the door of Mrs. Kinsley’s flat, shifting on his feet to stay warm. The door creaked open, revealing the spry but sharp-eyed seventy-eight-year-old.

Mrs. Kinsley’s flat smelled of lavender and mothballs, with faded photographs crowding every surface. Her sharp eyes, framed by deep crow’s feet, softened only when she spoke of her daughter. She handed Paul her shopping list, written in elegant but shaky cursive.

“You’re late,” Mrs. Kinsley said with mock severity.

Paul smirked. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I don’t trust the grocers these days,” she muttered, slipping on her coat. “They charge for their smiles now.”

Paul smirked. “Let’s hope they throw in a discount for regulars.”

As they walked to the market, Mrs. Kinsley pointed out changes in the neighbourhood - a new café here, a missing shop sign there. Her observations were precise, as if she cataloged every detail to stave off the inevitable erosion of time.

Chapter 3: The Market’s Charm

The market was a lively swirl of chatter, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread and overripe fruit. Paul followed Mrs. Kinsley as she haggled with a grocer over the price of oranges. Her wit was sharp, her words cutting through the man’s protests like a blade.

Paul stood a few feet away, carrying the bags she’d already filled. He couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. Kinsley had a way of making the world bend to her will, even in the small ways.

As they moved to the next stall, Paul caught sight of a woman standing perfectly still among the blur of activity. Her red scarf billowed slightly, though no wind stirred. There was something about the way the light fell on her face as she stared at a display of apples that unnerved him - her stillness felt out of place amid the bustle of the market.

"Paul!" Mrs. Kinsley's voice snapped him back. She was struggling with another bag and when he looked back the woman was gone.

Chapter 4: A Quiet Warning

Back at her flat, Paul unpacked the groceries as Mrs. Kinsley settled into her armchair. The room was cluttered but warm, with an ancient television dominating the space.

“You’re a good lad,” Mrs. Kinsley said, her voice softer now. “But don’t let this place stop you from moving forward.” her eyes fell on a stack of envelopes on the side board.

Paul looked up from the bag of carrots he was unpacking. “What do you mean?”

She waved a hand vaguely. “This town. The store. It has a way of… keeping you stuck. You’ve got more in you than this, Paul. Don’t waste it.”

Paul forced a smile. “I’m fine, Mrs. Kinsley. Really.”

She didn’t reply, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she turned to her knitting.

Chapter 5: Fresh & Save

The fluorescent lights of Fresh & Save buzzed faintly as Paul stepped inside. The store was clean, organised, and uncomfortably bright. It always felt colder here, the kind of cold that settled in your bones.

Claire, tall and poised with a perpetually tight ponytail, stood at the tills. Her sharp features gave her an air of authority, though her tired eyes betrayed her weariness. She barely glanced at Paul as he hung his coat on the staff hook.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up.

“Morning to you too,” Paul replied, grabbing a clipboard.

Tom wheeled a trolley past, looking scruffy as ever but wearing an endearing, crooked smile. He was whistling a tune that sounded off-key. “Welcome back to paradise, mate.”

Paul smirked but didn’t reply. He couldn't shake the feeling of dissonance in the store. The shelves seemed too perfect, the symmetry unnerving.

Chapter 6: Jane’s Observation

In the cleaning aisle, Paul found Jane stacking shelves of detergent. She worked with quiet efficiency, her pixie haircut framing her soft, thoughtful face. Her focus unbroken even as Paul approached.

“You’re good at this,” Paul said, gesturing to the neatly aligned bottles.

“Years of practice,” Jane replied, rolling her eyes as she glanced up. “But thanks. You’re good at… what is it you do again?”

Paul chuckled. “Need a hand?” he asked.

She glanced up, her lips curving into a small smile. “I’ve got it.”

Paul picked up a bottle, examining the label. “This stuff doesn’t work, you know.”

Jane laughed softly. “And you’re the expert?”

“I read things,” Paul said, setting the bottle down.

Her smile grew. “Maybe you should write things instead.”

Paul blinked, caught off guard. Jane stood, carrying her box to the next shelf. Her words lingered long after she was gone.

Chapter 7: Anna’s Return

The door chime rang, and Paul froze as Anna walked in. Her auburn hair caught the light as she scanned the store, her confidence radiating like an aura. She saw Paul and moved toward him, her steps purposeful as she approached.

“Paul,” she exclaimed, her voice warm but distant.

They exchanged small talk, her words flowing effortlessly as she told him about her travels and new partner. Paul nodded along, but her presence unsettled him.

“You’re still here,” Anna said softly.

Paul’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. Still here.”

She touched his arm lightly. “Take care of yourself, Paul.”

After she left, Paul found himself staring at the spot where she'd stood, her presence lingering like a ghost.

Chapter 8: Reflections

That night, Paul sat in his flat, the notebook open in front of him. He wrote: Day 1.

The words felt heavier than they should. He tapped the pen against the page, glancing at his bookshelf. The spines of familiar novels stared back at him, each one a reminder of something unfinished.

The light above him flickered once, the hum growing louder before fading again. Paul stared at the notebook, his skin tingling.

What now? he thought.