The January Jog

It happened in the tail end of winter, when the city of Port Meridian still wore its icy breath. The calendar insisted it was March, but the air disagreed, carrying a chill that bit through my running jacket. I had taken up jogging to shake off the holiday weight, and my usual circuit began at the old Clocktower Pier, winding down the cracked steps to the frozen canal promenade.

The promenade was notorious for its empty bars, their windows boarded up since the previous autumn. The lingering scent of stale beer and spilled wine clung to the cobblestones, a pungent reminder of the night before. I quickened my pace, eager to escape the smell, and veered onto the residential streets that ran parallel to the canal. The houses here were tall and narrow, their facades peeling with neglect, and the wind whistled through the wrought-iron fences.

As I passed a shuttered bakery, an elderly woman emerged from the doorway of a crumbling brownstone. She wore a tattered wool coat and a floral scarf, but no hat, and her gray hair whipped around her face. She caught my arm with surprising strength. ‘Young man,’ she said, her voice like rustling leaves, ‘have you seen my brooch? I dropped it by the pier last night, a silver lark with a ruby eye.’ I told her I hadn’t been there last night, and she released me with a nod, shuffling away without another word.

I shrugged and continued, but the encounter nagged at me. I hadn’t seen anyone else on these streets, and her presence seemed to materialize out of nowhere. I chided myself for being jumpy and pressed on, making a loop that brought me back to the canal edge, where the water lay black and still, half-iced. And there she was again, the same old woman, standing barefoot on the frost-covered stones, her shoes nowhere in sight. She approached me again. ‘My shoes,’ she said, her eyes wide and pleading. ‘Have you seen my shoes? They were right here, beside the water, last night.’

I stared at her bare feet, the pale skin mottled with cold. I could have sworn she’d been wearing shoes earlier, but now they were gone. ‘No, ma’am, I haven’t,’ I said, a knot forming in my stomach. She tilted her head, a strange smile spreading across her face. ‘But I saw you last night,’ she whispered. ‘You were here. You took them.’

A chill, deeper than the winter air, shot down my spine. ‘I told you, I wasn’t here last night,’ I insisted, backing away. But she followed, her bare feet padding quietly on the stones. ‘You’ll find them,’ she said, her voice now carrying an eerie certainty. ‘You’ll find them all. Just keep running.’

I turned and sprinted, my heart pounding. I didn’t look back until I reached the main road, gasping for breath. When I finally dared to glance over my shoulder, the canal promenade was empty. No old woman, no footprints in the frost. I tried to shake it off, convinced it was a prank or a moment of madness, but the image of her bare feet stayed with me.

The next day, I forced myself to take the same route, determined to prove my sanity. The weather had turned, and a light drizzle mixed with sleet began to fall. As I passed the same brownstone, she was there again, this time holding a tattered photograph. ‘You found my brooch?’ she asked eagerly, but her eyes were hollow. I shook my head, and she seemed to collapse in on herself, muttering about the lake. I hurried past, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being drawn into something.

On the third day, I avoided the canal altogether and ran through the business district. But no matter which turn I took, I kept catching glimpses of her in the reflections of storefront windows, or on the opposite side of the street, always watching. That afternoon, I received a letter in my mailbox, delivered by hand, with no stamp. Inside was a single item: a silver lark brooch with a ruby eye, wrapped in a piece of paper that read, ‘You found it. Now return it to the water.’

My hands trembled. I had never seen this brooch before, yet it was exactly as she described. I threw it in the trash, but the next morning, it was on my kitchen counter, wet and glistening. The cycle continued: every attempt to dispose of it, it would reappear, sometimes in my shoe, sometimes under my pillow, always accompanied by a note with instructions: ‘Bury it by the pier,’ ‘Throw it in the canal,’ ‘Leave it on the steps of the brownstone.’ I did everything, but the brooch always found its way back.

The old woman, meanwhile, began to appear more frequently, not just on my runs but in my daily life. She would stand at the end of my street, or in the grocery store aisle, always asking about her possessions: her hat, her gloves, her umbrella. I would see her barefoot, her hands outstretched, and I could feel her desperation like a physical weight. I started having nightmares, visions of a night I couldn’t remember, a night where I walked along the canal and encountered a figure who pleaded for help, and I, in my indifference, walked away.

One evening, exhausted and desperate, I finally confronted her. ‘I don’t have your things!’ I shouted. ‘I never did! Leave me alone!’ But she just smiled, her eyes reflecting the dim streetlights like mirrors. ‘You will,’ she said. ‘You will have everything when you take my place.’

That night, I woke to find myself standing on the canal promenade, the brooch in my hand. The air was numbingly cold, and a fog had rolled in. In the distance, I saw the old woman, walking slowly toward me, her feet now strangely silent. She was different: her clothes were dry, her hair neat, and she wore a pair of worn leather shoes. She stopped in front of me. ‘You’ve been looking for me,’ she said, but her voice was not old; it was young, almost familiar. ‘I’ve been waiting for someone to take over the watch. It’s cold out here, but someone must stay. I was you once.’

I looked down at my feet. I was barefoot. The cold seeped into my bones, and a profound sense of dread washed over me. I tried to move, but my legs were rooted to the spot. The woman, now smiling warmly, reached out and took the brooch from my hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now it’s your turn.’ She turned and walked away into the fog, and I saw that she was becoming solid, real, while I felt my own substance begin to dissolve.

I don’t know how long I stood there. The fog lifted with the dawn, and I found myself able to move again, but I was not myself. I had no memory of my name, only an overwhelming need to ask passersby about lost items. I began walking the streets of Port Meridian, barefoot, my clothes tattered, my mind filled with the faces of people who ignored me. I see a man jogging along the canal, his breath misting in the cold air. He looks familiar, and I feel a surge of recognition. I stop him and ask, ‘Have you seen my hat? I lost it last night, by the lake.’ He looks at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance, and I know he will not help me. I watch him run away, and I can only hope that one day, someone will take my place.