A faint metallic smell clung to him. At first it was subtle, almost impossible to notice. But lately it had grown stronger—a stale scent like rust… or something worse.
Emily tried convincing herself she was imagining things. But the question kept returning to her mind.
Why would a man who lived alone need so many wet wipes?
One Tuesday afternoon the pharmacy was nearly empty. Only the quiet hum of refrigerators and a soft radio played in the background.
Caleb stepped inside, hunched and silent. As usual, he walked straight to the shelf, grabbed the biggest pack of wipes, and brought it to the counter.
Emily smiled politely, though unease twisted in her stomach.
When Caleb reached out to pay with loose coins, his sleeve slipped back slightly.
And Emily saw it.
A dark stain on his wrist.
It looked like dried blood.
Not fresh—but brown and soaked into both his skin and shirt.
Her heart began pounding.
Blood?
The thought echoed loudly in her mind.
Caleb seemed to sense her staring. He quickly pulled down his sleeve, gathered his change, muttered a quiet “thanks,” and hurried out of the store.
The metallic smell lingered after he left.
That night Emily couldn’t sleep.