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Charley chuckled as she pulled on her apron, her green and blue hair pulled up into a tight bun on the top of her head. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

“Would I?”

“Obviously. Who else is going to keep your miserable arse company at six in the morning four days a week?”

“Someone nice?”

She snorted as she grabbed the trays of focaccia dough that I’d gotten out of the fridge a couple of hours earlier to bring up to room temperature. We let our focaccia cold ferment for seventy-two hours, which gave it a delicious, complex flavour with beautiful sour notes and the perfect bubbly crumb. “Nobody is as nice as me.”

“Says the woman having to say that,” I said, as I carefully slid some croissants into the oven, knowing the scent of butter and fresh pastry was about to flood the room. Like Charley, it was a smell I’d never get tired of. It was second only to fresh sourdough straight out of the oven.

Charley rolled her eyes as she began preparing trays with olive oil for the focaccia, which would need to proof for another two hours. It was a bread that was truly a labour of love, and the comments from our customers reflected that.

“What did Kev write on the board?” I asked as I began egg-washing another tray of croissants. “It looks like something about croissants but, apart from that, I’ve got no fucking clue.”

“Me neither,” Charley said as she scooped the fermented focaccia dough onto the trays. “He should’ve been a bloody doctor with that handwriting.”

“Well, when he comes in later, he can tell us. And we can hope it’s not important.”

“I fucking hope not,” Charley said. “Anything else going on this morning?”

I thought for a second, the image of the man on the street flashing into my mind. I still wasn’t completely convinced he’d been real, even though I’d never had random visions of people before. Maybe it’d just been a fluke—a stranger passing by on his way from here to there. Or a tourist with jet lag who thought a bit of fresh air would help him sleep.

And if he had been a ghost, then I’d have an interesting story to tell in the future.

The next morning, I’d been shoving the last of the croissants into the proofing oven when I glanced out the window to see the man standing there again. He was dressed in his thick coat and hat, the red scarf wound around his neck and pulled slightly up over his jaw, like he was trying to keep warm.

I didn’t blame him considering it was well below freezing, but why he was out in the first place still baffled me. If he had somewhere to go, wouldn’t he have kept moving?

He was stood slightly closer to the window this time, like he wanted me to notice him. Whether he was trying to attract my attention, trying to frighten me, or tryingnotto frighten me by making his presence known, I couldn’t say. I almost wanted to stick my head out the door and ask what he was doing, because if it’d been Charley here by herself, I wouldn’t have wanted anyone watching her.

But when he saw me frowning, he held his hands up sheepishly and backed away. The scarf slipped from around his mouth and I saw there was an awkward smile on his lips. I thought he’d tried to mouth something, but I was too far away to be able to see properly.

So I went back to my pastries and my sourdough, trying to put him out of my mind.

Until the next morning. When he appeared outside the window again with something clutched in his hand.

And when he saw me, he unfolded it and held it up for me to read: SORRY I DIDN’T MEAN TO SCARE YOU. I DON’T SLEEP.

I chuckled and shook my head as I tipped loaves of sourdough out onto a tray to be scored and baked, flour dusting my hands and making my tattoos look even more faded than they were. Which was probably for the best, because getting my knuckles tattooed at seventeen by a mate who’d barely started tattooing hadn’t been my best idea.

I wanted a way to respond to him, but he wouldn’t be able to hear me through the glass. He could see me though, so I walked over to the corner and grabbed a whiteboard marker out of the pot and the notebook we kept there for reminders, scrawling some words across it to hold up: VAMPIRE OR INSOMNIA?

The man’s eyes narrowed as he read it, and I wondered if the glare of the lights was making it harder to see. But then he burst out laughing, head tipping back and hat falling onto the icy pavement behind him to reveal a mess of fluffy dark hair that reminded me of a mullet or a badly grown out mohawk. He flailed slightly, like he’d almost overbalanced, then spun around looking for his hat as he patted the top of his head. The whole thing was comical but oddly endearing.

He stood up and smiled at me through the window as he held up two fingers. Insomnia then.

I grinned and scribbled something else on the notebook before holding it up: PROBABLY A GOOD THING. WE HAVE A LOT OF GARLIC IN HERE.

He had to squint to read it again, and I realised my handwriting had dissolved into a scrawl that was nearly as bad as Kev’s. But he still chuckled and when I met his gaze he mouthed something that looked like “good, I like garlic.”

I was almost tempted to open the bakery door so I could keep talking to him, but I wasn’t that foolish to let a total stranger in at half-four in the morning. Plus, I really needed to get back to work and make a start on the sourdough, which felt like it was watching me from the bench, reminding me of all the things I still had to do.

When I glanced back at the window, the man on the other side smiled and waved before pulling up the collar of his coat and wandering off into the darkness, his piece of paper still in hand.

I smiled to myself as I walked back to the bench and picked up a small scoring knife.

It was the first time I really hoped I’d get to see him again.