Jim used to be a fisherman. Or so they said.
People saw him in town sometimes. A six-pack, a carton of smokes, maybe a can of something barely worth eating. He didn’t linger. Never made small talk. Just dropped crumpled bills on the counter and walked out. That was a while ago. Months. A year. Maybe more.
Has anyone seen Jim? someone would ask. Just shrugs. Shakes of the head. A vague unease no one could put into words.
His cottage was disappearing under vines and brambles. The windows were cloudy, the door slightly ajar, as if it had given up trying to keep the world out. His car sat in the driveway, rusted-out, sinking into the dirt. Vines curled around it, pulling it down like the soil was hungry for it.
Nobody went knocking. Not out of fear – Jim wasn’t the type you feared, just the type you let be. But eventually, the question started slipping into barroom conversations, murmured across counters at the bait shop. Has anyone seen Jim? It felt like a test no one wanted to fail. But no one answered, either. Just a lot of shrugs, a lot of people looking into their drinks.
One afternoon, a couple of kids rode out there on a dare. Stopped at the edge of the yard. Stared at the overgrown ruins, the derelict shack. The air was too still. One of them threw a rock at the car. It hit the hood, dull and flat. They stood quiet for a moment – almost like they were waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. They pedaled away. Never looked back.
Weeks passed. No one checked. The cottage sagged. The vines crept. The car sank deeper. People still asked, but quieter now. Has anyone seen Jim?
Eventually, a man from the county showed up. He parked his truck at the edge of the property, clipboard in hand. He didn’t fight through the tick-infested growth. Didn’t walk up to the cottage. Didn’t peer through the windows or test the door.
He stood for a moment, scribbled on his clipboard, then got back in his truck and drove away.
A lone seagull called overhead, its cry sharp and thin. It circled once, then turned out to sea. The salty wind shifted through the trees, hissing something that almost sounded like a familiar question.
And then, nothing. Just the cottage, the car, and the thicket. Fading. Becoming forgotten.
