Silas Sharp and the Case of the Door of Unmade Choices

 

Chapter 1 — The Month After Everything

January is the month where time takes off its gloves and starts swinging wildly hoping to land any punch it can.

December pretends to be your friend with all of the colorful lights, happy music, and hopes for Peace on Earth. Even the lies are festive. If I’ve learned anything in my line of work, it’s that peace is as hard to come by as a decent omelet here at The Perpetual Egg Diner. You spend December soaking up the illusion of joy and goodwill toward men. January shows up afterward like a landlord when you’re two months late on rent or, even worse, a disappointed parent wanting to know what exactly you’ve done with your life.

I don’t do well in January.

A psychologist acquaintance of mine, Dr. Calico Verde, calls it seasonal affective disorder. I call it a healthy toxicity about snow, cold, and gray skies. The sun keeps banker’s hours. Even the coffee tastes like it’s just riding out the days until the vernal equinox.

Which is how I found myself sitting in my usual booth at The Perpetual Egg at 7:12 a.m., trying to convince a mug of black coffee to feel something on my behalf. The mug stared back at me from inside the cup.

“You’re late,” said the coffee.

I closed my eyes. Not because I was surprised — that ship had sailed years ago — but because January had already used up my daily allotment of patience.

“Good morning,” I sighed. “I assume this is part of some new winter blend. I’m getting a full-bodied mix of beans, rich maple. Notes of despair. A hint of judgment.”

“You’ve been sitting there for five minutes,” the coffee said. “Staring into me like I owe you answers.”

“I was hoping for motivation,” I said. “Or at least the illusion of it.”

“You know that’s not my department, Silas,” the coffee replied. “I handle truth. And, if you’re lucky, you get caffeine to wake your ass up.”

This was A Cup of Joe — the diner’s resident oracle, confidant, and metaphysical nuisance. Plain white ceramic mug. No logo. No warning label. The kind of cup you don’t notice until it starts talking back. I took a sip. Yes, it was a winter blend, but not exactly a good one. This was the kind of coffee that didn’t believe in comfort, only function.

Outside the window, January leaned against the glass and smirked. Snowbanks hunched along the curb like they had no intention of leaving anytime soon, so don’t ask. Christmas lights still dangled outside The Perpetual Egg, blinking weakly, as if to remind the owner they were still on display but would much rather be out of the cold, thank you very much.

“There’s a door,” Joe said. “A door that shouldn’t be there.”

“I don’t want a case,” I said, mostly to myself. “I’m just here because my office radiator is wheezing and coughing like it has asthma.”

Joe laughed and I was reminded how weird it is that coffee laughs.

“Define door,” I said with resignation because I knew I would be taking a case and I knew that Joe knew I would be taking a case. Maybe the illusion of purpose would make the start of a new year tolerable. “Because this town is full of them. They lead to houses, apartments, schools.”

“This one doesn’t belong,” Joe said.

“Massage parlors. Public restrooms. That goddamn closet I haven’t cleaned in ten years.”

“Focus, Silas.”

That was the problem with January. Everything felt like it didn’t belong. The decorations. The optimism. Me.

“What kind of door?” I asked.

Joe hesitated. Anytime Joe hesitated it was bad.

“It’s a threshold anomaly,” Joe said. “Probability fracture.”

I sighed. “You’re making that up.”

“I’m making it precise,” Joe said. “The door feeds on regret.”

That word sat heavier than it should have. Regret had a way of thriving in winter. No distractions. No parties. Just long nights and too much time to inventory your mistakes.

“Whose regret?” I asked.

Joe answered carefully, like it didn’t want to spook the month.

“A man. Late fifties. Just lost a job he thought he’d retire from. He’s reached the part of January where you start wondering if the best version of your life already happened and nobody bothered to tell you.”

I didn’t like how specific that felt.

“He smells like old cologne and reeks of midlife panic,” Joe added. “Carries his disappointment in a briefcase. Gen-X model. Raised practical.”

I stared out the window, catching my tired reflection. January had already stripped away any remaining flattering angles.

“Why are you telling me?” I asked.

“That’s the job, Silas Sharp. You notice doors,” Joe said. “And because you’re already halfway to asking the same questions he is.”

“That’s seasonal,” I said. “It’ll pass.”

Joe snorted. A remarkable sound for a beverage.

“You don’t get to opt out of thresholds,” Joe said. “You only get to choose whether you help someone through them.”

I sat with that. January loved forcing conversations you weren’t ready for.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He’ll find you,” Joe said. “They always do. Especially this time of year.”

I stood, pulled on my coat and reached for my wallet, which held little in the way of payment, as usual.

“On the house,” Joe said. As I turned to leave, Joe added, almost gently, “One more thing.”

I paused. January always had one more thing.

“He opened it,” Joe said.

My hand tightened around the doorframe.

“And?” I asked.

Joe’s voice dropped, darker than the coffee.

“And he saw himself on the other side.”

Outside, the cold hit me like a verdict. Snow fell quietly, admirably committed to its job. Across the street, down an alley between the laundromat and the tax prep office, the air shimmered. Not a door, not exactly. More like the memory of one. A suggestion.

January hadn’t even reached its stride yet.

I had a feeling this case wasn’t about a door at all. It was about what happens after the holidays, when the decorations come down and you’re left alone with the life you chose and the ones you didn’t.