The train hummed softly as it sped through the rolling countryside. Samson leaned against the window, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the glass as he gazed at the scenery outside. Verdant hills stretched into the horizon, dotted with quaint cottages and grazing livestock. The occasional stream glimmered in the sunlight, snaking its way through the fields.
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels was oddly soothing, lulling the other passengers into quiet conversation or sleep. But Samson's thoughts were far from restful. His mind drifted, weaving between the present and fragments of his past.
---
The journey felt serene, yet each passing mile seemed to tug at a part of him he wasn't ready to confront. The beauty of the outside world was a stark contrast to the storm within him. The sight of children playing in a distant field brought an ache to his chest, reminding him of Ayla.
A sudden curve in the tracks brought the train closer to a small village. The spire of a chapel peeked out from behind a cluster of trees, its bell faintly visible. Samson imagined life there—simple, peaceful. Could things have been different for him and his family if they'd lived in such a place?
---
Without warning, the train began to slow. A muffled announcement came over the intercom, informing passengers of an unexpected delay.
Samson glanced out the window and noticed a small town ahead, its red-roofed buildings clustered tightly together. A sign by the tracks read "Ginger Town."
The conductor's voice crackled through the speakers again: "We'll be stopping here for a while, folks. There's a minor issue with the engine. Please feel free to stretch your legs, but stay near the train."
The train hissed as it came to a halt, and passengers began to stir. Samson grabbed his bag and stepped onto the platform.
The air outside was warm and carried the faint scent of flowers. Ginger Town was quaint, its cobblestone streets lined with colorful shops and street vendors selling everything from fresh produce to trinkets. The townspeople moved at a leisurely pace, their cheerful demeanor making the town feel welcoming.
---
Memories of past
Samson wandered aimlessly through the streets, eventually finding a bench in the town square. He sat down, setting his bag beside him, and stared at the bustling market stalls.
His thoughts drifted to his mother. In his past life, she had worked tirelessly to provide for him and Ayla. Samson remembered the long hours she spent sewing clothes, her hands raw and blistered. Despite her exhaustion, she always managed to smile when she saw them.
Even now, in this new life, his mother's struggles continued. While his scholarship covered his academy expenses, Ayla's needs still required funding. His mother worked multiple jobs to make ends meet, and it pained Samson to know that she had never had a moment's rest.
"I have to do something," he muttered under his breath. "She deserves better."
---
Lost in thought, Samson didn't notice the old man until he sat down on the other end of the bench.
The man looked to be in his seventies, his weathered face framed by a neatly trimmed white beard. His eyes, though kind, seemed to carry the weight of untold stories. For a moment, the two sat in silence, the noise of the market fading into the background.
"Strange place to sit and brood, don't you think?" the man said suddenly, his voice rich and steady.
Samson turned, startled. "Oh, I wasn't brooding—just...thinking."
The man chuckled softly. "Thinking is good. But too much of it can weigh you down."
Samson managed a small smile but said nothing.
The man studied him for a moment, as if reading the unspoken words on his face. Then, with a thoughtful nod, he said, "You seem like someone who's looking for something."
Samson raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"
The man leaned back, his hands resting on his cane. "I've been around long enough to recognize that look in a young man's eyes. You're not here by accident, are you?"
Samson hesitated, unsure how to respond.
Before he could speak, the man continued, "Tell me, son. Are you looking to earn some money?"
The question caught Samson off guard. "What?"
The man smiled knowingly. "I manage a small group of people—private investigators, if you will. We specialize in solving problems the authorities don't have time for. Nothing too dangerous, mind you, but we do good work."
Samson frowned. "And why are you telling me this?"
"One of our members is out of commission—a minor injury on the job. We need someone to fill in temporarily," the man explained. "You seem like a capable young man, and I figured you might be interested."
Samson's mind raced. The offer was unexpected, almost too convenient. But the man's demeanor didn't seem suspicious. If anything, he appeared genuine.
"Why me?" Samson asked cautiously.
The man chuckled. "Call it a hunch. You've got the look of someone who doesn't back down from a challenge. And besides, you've got nothing to lose, do you?"
Samson hesitated. The idea of earning money was tempting—he could send it home to his mother, give her a chance to rest. But was this really the right way to do it?
The man rose to his feet, leaning on his cane. "Think about it," he said. "If you're interested, meet me at the clock tower in an hour."
With that, he walked away, disappearing into the crow
---
Samson remained on the bench, staring at the spot where the man had stood. His instincts told him to be cautious, but the possibility of helping his family was hard to ignore.
He glanced at the clock tower in the distance, its hands ticking steadily. One hour. That was all he had to decide.
Taking a deep breath, Samson stood and began to walk. The path ahead was uncertain, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter was more than just coincidence.