“Hey, Eric. Can I get two packs of Newports?”

It was getting close to six in the morning, and Eric was alone, as usual, working his graveyard shift at the gas station. The regular morning customers were coming in now, wanting caffeine and cigarettes to start their day. Eric knew all these people by sight and sound, and they liked him, because he knew what they wanted, and got them out the door without delay.

“Sure thing, James,” Eric said. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and reached behind him to the shelf with the smokes on it. He plucked two packs out and dropped them on the counter. “Seventeen-fifty, as usual.”

James made a pained expression. “I wish these weren’t so damned expensive.”

Eric shrugged, allowing a grin to cross his face. “Your fault that you smoke the most expensive kind there is.”

James laughed in his own turn and swiped his card. The transaction done, he stuffed the packs into his pocket. He turned to go, but Eric’s voice stopped him. “Grab a cup of coffee on your way out.”

James turned back and raised his eyebrows. “Fresh pot?”

Eric spread his hands wide. One of the main reasons they chose this station was his excellent coffee and fresh brew every hour. “What do you take me for?”

James laughed again as he went to the back. Eric heard the coffee pouring and turned to face the next customer in line, another pack already in hand. “Good morning, Paula. New stock comes in today, eh?”

She smiled wearily, her face still lined with weariness. Every Thursday, a new stock came to her store, and she was in charge of noting everything for inventory. “Thanks, Eric. Fresh pot, you said?”

“On the house,” Eric replied. Nobody hated free coffee. “Try to stay out of trouble, now.”

James and Paula both left, holding large steaming cups of coffee, and looking distinctly the more cheerful for it. Eric grinned after them and gave a sigh that was equal parts tired and satisfied. Strangely, though his job was purely customer service, it was also the best one he’d ever had. He enjoyed his direct supervisor, and the trust put in him to manage the gas station by himself for the overnight shift. Speak of the devil, he thought. His manager John walked through the door at that exact moment.

“Morning, boss,” Eric said. “Rough start to the day?”

It was an educated guess on his part. John smelled like cigars, which he would smoke if he were stressed out. John shook his head ruefully. “Complications with the baby.”

Eric’s face instantly switched to one of concern. “Oh no. Is Jamie alright?”

John waved a hand dismissively. “She’s fine. Just more tired than usual. If she’d stop working so much, she wouldn’t have these problems.”

Eric laughed. “Getting your workaholic wife to slow down? You’re not Superman.”

John shook his head, then disappeared down the hallway to his small office. Eric knew he had to inspect the result of the tills from the previous day. It was the first job he did all day, and the day couldn’t continue until he’d done so. Eric pulled out his phone again, checking the time. Thirty minutes to go until the end of his shift. He knew from personal experience that the customers often didn’t come around this time, so he got to work doing the necessary prep work that would make the morning shift’s job easier.

Cleaning the grill took only ten minutes, and he left the pieces on the drying rack, then went around the store to straighten up the shelves. Not much to do there, as he kept it all pretty tidy. Then he counted the cigarettes, made some notes in the inventory and orders binder, and it was finally time to clock off. He did so, bringing John a cup of the fresh pot he’d just made, and punched out. Tanya, his morning shift counterpart, walked in then and quickly counted her till, opening up and getting ready for the day.

“Go home, already,” she said to Eric. “You’re supposed to be out of here at six, not start closing up at six.”

“Pot meet kettle,” he threw back at her out of the corner of his mouth. Her lips twisted in a smile. But she had a point, he realized. He started counting the money left over in his till, removing the excess cash until he had only fifty left inside. The extra bills went into the safe, and he was done. Might as well grab a drink to bring home, he thought. He went over to the fountain and considered his options. Then he saw the strawberry soda, and, for some reason, he was really craving that. So he poured himself a cup.

“Night, Tanya,” he said, as he walked out. He barely caught the sound of her reply, and immediately turned his feet for the road leading to his apartment complex. He had no car as he couldn’t drive, but that never posed a problem for him. The Alaskan morning was still dark outside, and he carefully weaved his way through the parked cars beside the building, walking across the parking lot and out of sight of the store.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

He shivered slightly as he felt the cold air on his face, then immediately wondered why. It was the middle of January, so he’d gotten used to winter’s touch by now. Yet it felt like he’d just spent months in a warm climate, by the way his body rejected it. He steeled himself with a shake of his body and continued on. What a weird morning.

As usual, his apartment complex was just starting to come to life. Everyone else who lived here worked normal day shifts, and so their morning routines usually took place right as he was coming home. Sure enough, he spotted an older black man trembling with the weather as he attempted to go down the icy steps to the mailbox. Sensing what he was after, Eric quickly pulled the box open. Only one letter for him, and the man’s daily newspaper.

“Here you are, Mr. Jones,” he said, handing the paper over. “I keep telling you you don’t have to get it yourself.”

“I need the exercise,” Mr. Jones wheezed. “Useful young men like you ain’t gonna be here forever.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage somehow,” Eric agreed. “But for now, you don’t have to.”

“Fresh coffee at the corner store?” Mr. Jones asked. “I know you don’t leave without making some.”

“Of course,” Eric said. “But be nice to Tanya.”

“What a fine lady,” Mr. Jones said, as Eric went up the stairs two at a time. “She’s a good face for an early morning like this.”

Eric chuckled as he reached the second-floor landing, then jogged up to the third. Even at sixty-four years old, Mr. Jones still fancied himself a lady’s man. He had a lot of work to do on his smooth-talking though, he thought to himself. He knew Tanya didn’t mind, however, as Mr. Jones was one of their favorite customers. He paused to catch his breath on the third floor, then paced down the hall to his room. As he pulled out his keys, he saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned.

There was a small dog there, at the end of the hall, staring at him. He smiled instinctively. The dog had bright blue eyes and pure white fur, save for a black line across his chest. It was almost like a wound, he thought with a slight frown. There was something oddly familiar about the dog, he thought. Had he seen it before? No, he was sure it was a stranger to him. Maybe he had a new neighbor, he thought. He shrugged and entered his apartment.

He turned his computer on as he sat in his desk chair, and let it startup as he opened the piece of mail he’d received. There was no stamp on the letter, he noticed. Just a blank envelope with his name on it. Did that mean it was hand-delivered? He slit it open with his apartment key and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was weird paper, almost parchment. And the words on it were hand-written, not by a pen, but a quill. He recognized the style of writing from his research in writing stories. There were telltale signs of a quill’s less flexible movement across the page. His confusion increasing by the second, he read the letter.

Dear Eric,

You will likely not remember my name, nor the great help that you rendered me. I cannot explain it all in one letter, but I can still offer my deep and sincere thanks. Without you, my friends and I would be much the worse for wear. For this, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I made a promise, as you will not remember, that if you helped, I would do what I could to help you out in your own life. Though your goal remains unfinished, requiring another as brave as you to complete it, I still honor my promise. I will never forget your contributions, and this gift is the least I can do in return. I apologize for the demands I placed on you, though you performed better than I could have ever hoped.

What in the hell? Eric looked away from the letter, too confused to comprehend the words. Did he know anyone who wrote in such an archaic way? No, he thought. He lived in the twenty-first century. Only weirdos and eccentrics used quills. Shaking his head, he continued to read, his frown deepening.

You have left many friends and allies here, who remember you fondly even as you forget them. I can only hope that, in some distant future, you can regain the memories you made here. If that time comes, you will know how to reach me. For now, please accept my thanks and the gift included in this envelope. I do not know the monetary system of your home, but here, they say a million gold makes a king. So I hope that ideal transfers to your home.

A million? Eric’s heart leaped just at the thought of the number. Surely the person was messing with him. He glanced at the envelope and saw another piece of paper. It was a check, written out to him, in the amount of a million dollars. His jaw dropped. In the memo line of the check, it just said thank you. He looked back at the letter, his brain feeling like it was jamming.

I wish you great success in your future endeavors. I have met and befriended a man in your hometown who deals with property, and we have worked together to find you a home you would find very comfortable. I hope this small gift makes your life easier.

Forever in your debt,

Samuel Bragg

Eric stared at the signature on the bottom of the page, trying to form some kind of thought, but only vaguely aware of a faint buzzing. There was something familiar about that name, he thought. But he was sure he’d never met someone by that name. Maybe it was one of his customers over the past year of working at the gas station, he thought. He did get small gifts from time to time for making their mornings more enjoyable. But certainly not a house and a million dollars.

Flipping over the page, he saw a phone number written out. It was all one long string of numbers, with no parenthesis or hyphens to break it up. But the postal code was from Alaska, alright, and he looked the number up on his computer. It was linked to the biggest real estate company in the city of Fairbanks. Curious, he dialed the number. He didn’t expect an answer this early in the day, but he wanted to at least leave a message. To his surprise, someone answered immediately.

“Hello! Is this Eric Breeden?” The voice said, sounding just as wildly confused as he was. “I don’t know what good luck you got, sir, but we got a lot to talk about. You have a very good friend here in the world. They’ve just set you up for life!”