"One Room" "Two Stories"

 

The bell rang twice.

Lyra hadn’t been expecting anyone. She was curled up on her armchair with a steaming mug of cinnamon tea and a mystery novel in her lap — the irony not lost on her. The cold outside had frosted her windows, and the faint hum of the heater was the only sound in her cozy apartment.

The bell rang again.

She frowned, placed the cup down, and walked to the door with slight annoyance. But as soon as she opened it — the expression on her face changed.

There he stood.

Zane Faulkner.

Wearing his usual charcoal-grey trench coat, hair slightly tousled like he’d stepped out of a crime scene and into a fashion shoot. A thin layer of mist clung to him like he belonged to the fog. He held up a brown paper bag.

"Peace offering," he said with that devilish half-smile.

Lyra’s eyes lit up for a fraction of a second — a quick flicker of joy that she immediately masked with narrowed eyes and a sarcastic scoff. "Do you not know how to knock like a normal human being?"

Zane stepped in without invitation. "Knocking is for salesmen and suspicious cousins."

"You’re both."

He walked into the living room like he owned the place, placed the bag on the table, and pulled off his coat.

"Wait—" Lyra raised a hand. "Why are you here?"

He flopped onto her couch, making himself far too comfortable. "I’m bored. Free after weeks. No bodies, no bombs, no madmen quoting Nietzsche." He reached for the tea she’d been drinking and sniffed it. "Cinnamon? You’re growing soft."

Lyra snatched the mug from his hand. "Touch it again and it goes on your head."

He laughed. “There’s the spirit.”

Lyra crossed her arms but didn’t ask him to leave. Her fake annoyance was already giving way to the quiet comfort she always felt when he appeared unannounced — and uninvited — after vanishing for days.

“Did you miss me?” Zane teased.

“Like one misses migraines.”

He grinned wider. “So... any new books that murder their readers?”

“Several. And two that nearly bored me to death.”

Suddenly, Zane’s phone buzzed on the table. The screen read: Eli (3 calls missed)

Zane raised an eyebrow and answered lazily, “You’re alive?”

Eli’s voice came through, fast and nervous. “Zane! There’s a man here. Came to the flat. Says he has to meet you urgently. Wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”

Zane sat up straighter. “Did he say what it’s about?”

“Nope. Just asked for you by name. He looks... rattled. Like he saw something he shouldn’t have.”

Zane’s tone changed, subtly sharper. “Keep him there. I’m coming.”

Lyra noticed the shift in his posture.

“Case?” she asked, finishing his thought.

Zane stood, grabbing his coat. “Looks like it. Eli doesn’t panic unless there’s no milk or someone’s bleeding.”

Lyra sighed. “You just came to waste my tea and now you’re leaving.”

He paused at the door, glanced back with that unreadable glint in his eye. “This was the calm before the storm. Thought you deserved a little peace.”

He was gone before she could form a reply.

Zane’s apartment — 15 minutes later

Eli opened the door wide. His curly hair was even messier than usual, and he looked breathless.

“He’s in the study,” he whispered. “Been pacing. Wouldn’t even sit.”

Zane entered the room where a man in his late forties stood stiffly by the window, hands clasped behind his back. Clean-shaven, expensive overcoat, and the kind of nervous energy that made rooms colder.

“Mr. Faulkner,” he said the moment he saw Zane. “My name is Quentin Rowe. I’ve done something terrible.”

Zane didn’t sit. “Go on.”

Quentin licked his lips. “I was on the overnight train from Bridgeport to Wellingham last night. I booked a private luxury compartment. Paid extra for privacy.”

“And?”

“This morning, when we stopped... they found a dead man in my compartment.”

Eli’s eyebrows shot up.

Zane stayed silent, letting the man fill the silence.

“The man was stabbed. But I swear — when I went to sleep, I was alone. The door was locked from the inside. No one else was there.”

Zane narrowed his eyes. “And yet someone died next to you?”

“Yes!” Quentin ran a hand through his hair. “But there’s more. There’s another man... a porter named Samuel Crane. He claims he saw the body first. That he entered the compartment at 3:00 AM because he heard a thud.”

“And?” Zane asked.

“He says the body was already dead by then.”

Zane tilted his head. “So both of you claim different things.”

“Yes,” Quentin exhaled. “He’s lying. I woke up at 6:15 when the train stopped. There was no body then. I opened the door, went to get coffee, and came back to find him shouting.”

Zane leaned back. “And Samuel’s version?”

“He says he opened the door at 3:00 AM and saw the dead man already there. That he screamed, and I came out a few seconds later pretending to be shocked.”

Eli scratched his head. “So… one room, two stories.”

Zane smiled slowly. “Now that’s interesting.”

The Train Compartment – Midday

The compartment was sealed off by local police, but Zane had clearance.

It was a luxury space — velvet seats, polished wood panels, gold-rimmed glasses on a trolley. One side had a small fold-down bed. The sheets were crumpled.

Zane inspected the crime scene without touching anything.

The victim was mid-thirties, dark-haired, wearing a formal suit. Blood pooled near his side. A precise stab wound — no sign of struggle.

He looked at Eli. “What do we know about the victim?”

“Name: Alan Whitby. Investment broker. Ticket says he boarded last-minute. No luggage except a briefcase that’s missing.”

Zane knelt near the seat. “No signs of forced entry. Compartment locks from the inside. No broken window. No spilled drinks. Neat, clean... controlled.”

Lyra’s voice cut in from behind them.

“You always leave me behind when things get messy.”

Zane stood. “You tracked me.”

“Eli left the GPS on your phone active.”

Eli grinned sheepishly. “Oops.”

Lyra entered the compartment, examining it with clinical eyes. “What’s the story?”

Zane gestured. “Two men. One room. Dead body. Both tell different timelines.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “Which one’s lying?”

“That’s the thing,” Zane said slowly. “Neither version proves the other wrong. Both are oddly... clean.”

She walked around the body. “Then we look for contradiction in the details.”

Zane nodded. “Exactly.”

Interrogation Room – Quentin Rowe

Zane sat across from him, fingers steepled.

“You say you woke up at 6:15 AM, went out for coffee, came back and found the porter screaming.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t hear any scream at 3:00 AM?”

“No.”

“You’re a light sleeper?”

“Very. I wake up if my phone buzzes.”

“Yet you slept through a man dying in your room?”

Quentin hesitated. “I was... exhausted. I took a sleeping pill.”

Zane’s eyes lit up. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He stood and walked out.

Interrogation Room – Samuel Crane

“You heard a thud at 3:00 AM?” Zane asked.

“Yes. That’s why I knocked. When no one answered, I used the staff key and opened it.”

“And found the body?”

“Yes. Then he came out from the coffee cart like he didn’t know anything.”

“You screamed?”

“Yes.”

“Did Quentin seem surprised?”

“Fake surprised. He looked... composed.”

Zane tilted his head. “And why didn’t you call the police immediately?”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed. “I told the conductor. It took time to stop the train.”

Zane left the room silently.

Outside – Fog Thicker Now

Lyra leaned against the rail, arms folded. “Well?”

Zane looked out at the fog. “It’s not the lies that bother me. It’s the structure of the lies.”

Lyra smiled faintly. “You think the story was built?”

He nodded. “Both are too perfectly told. One says: ‘I was asleep.’ The other says: ‘I screamed.’ Yet no one else heard anything. No witness to confirm either.”

Lyra stared at the frost on the train window.

Zane whispered, “One of them created a scene. The other… rehearsed his role.”

Lyra’s voice was barely audible. “Then the answer lies in what was missing from the room.”

Zane turned, a spark in his eye. “Exactly.”

                         **********

The fog outside thickened like spilled ink on glass. Zane stood near the train's edge, arms folded, eyes lost in thought. Lyra joined him quietly, her gloved hands tucked into her coat pockets.

"You found something, didn’t you?" she said softly.

Zane didn’t answer right away. Then he murmured, "Two people told us what happened inside that compartment. But the most important thing is what they didn’t say."

Lyra tilted her head. "Like what?"

Zane turned toward her. "Like the coffee cup."

Inside the train compartment — minutes earlier

Zane had returned alone, kneeling near the trolley. Two clean teacups. One small stain on the tablecloth. A second set of cutlery. And... nothing else.

Except one tiny thing he’d missed before — an almost-invisible mark on the leather armrest. Circular. Damp.

He pressed his finger to it. Cold. Recently moved.

A third cup.

But it was gone.

Someone had deliberately removed it.

Zane's apartment — Makeshift Briefing Room

Eli had cleared the table. Quentin Rowe and Samuel Crane were seated opposite each other, eyes avoiding contact.

Lyra leaned against the wall, arms folded, observing both men like a hawk.

Zane entered and dropped a small object on the table — a photo of the train compartment.

“Let’s begin,” he said, voice calm. “From the top.”

Eli blinked. “Wait, we’re starting over?”

Zane smiled. “No. We’re unwrapping a story.”

He pointed to Quentin. “You claimed you were asleep the whole night, and that the body appeared only after you left for coffee.”

He turned to Samuel. “You claimed you entered at 3:00 AM after hearing a sound, and found the body already there.”

Both men nodded.

Zane held up two fingers. “One room. Two stories. But neither matches the physical evidence.”

Samuel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Zane leaned in. “There were three teacups in that compartment originally. Now there are two.”

Quentin stiffened.

Zane continued, “Two were still there. One was removed — carefully. Wiped clean.”

Eli’s mouth dropped open. “Wait... someone else was there?”

Lyra stepped forward. “That’s what he’s saying. A third person — whose presence both men tried to hide.”

Zane nodded. “Now here’s what I think happened.”

Zane’s Reconstruction Begins

He paced slowly as he spoke.

“Quentin Rowe didn’t sleep through anything. He never took a pill. That story was designed to give him distance from the time of death.”

Quentin opened his mouth, but Zane raised a hand. “Save it.”

He continued.

“Sometime between midnight and 2:00 AM, Alan Whitby — the victim — joined Quentin in the compartment. They knew each other. Probably business partners. Probably not on good terms.”

He looked directly at Quentin. “You didn’t want your name linked to him. Did you?”

Quentin’s jaw clenched.

“You argued. Maybe Alan blackmailed you. Maybe he threatened to expose something. Either way, the conversation turned violent. You killed him.”

Gasps around the room.

“But now you had a problem. A murder in a locked compartment. Witnesses all around. Panic wouldn’t help you.”

Zane looked at Samuel now. “And that’s where he comes in.”

Samuel blinked. “What—?”

“You helped him clean up,” Zane said. “Or maybe you were bribed. You got rid of the third cup, took the briefcase, made sure the scene looked untouched — but you both knew the body couldn’t stay hidden forever.”

He stopped pacing. “So you came up with a plan.”

Lyra stepped in. “Two conflicting stories. You’d each tell a different timeline, thinking it would confuse the investigation.”

Eli added, “And it almost did.”

Zane smiled at both of them. “Except it didn’t.”

The Cracks Begin to Show

Quentin stood, flustered. “That’s absurd. I didn’t even know the man! I— I was traveling for personal—”

Zane interrupted. “Then how do you explain this?”

He tossed a photo onto the table. It was blurry, taken from the train’s hallway camera. But Alan Whitby’s face was clear — and next to him, unmistakably, Quentin Rowe.

Same compartment. Just two hours before Alan was found dead.

Samuel’s eyes widened. “You said you didn’t know him…”

Quentin's voice cracked. “We— we worked together years ago, that’s not—”

Zane’s tone sharpened. “Lying once is foolish. Lying twice is suicide.”

He turned slowly to Samuel. “But you… your lie is the cleverer one.”

Samuel looked cornered.

Zane went on, almost casually. “You said you entered the room at 3:00 AM and screamed. But no one on that train — no staff, no guest — heard a thing. Not one person recalls hearing a scream.”

Samuel tried to speak, but Zane held up a finger.

“So I wondered — why pretend to scream? Unless the scream never happened... unless it was just a story to place yourself after the murder, not before.”

Zane's voice dropped to a near-whisper.

“But you were already in that compartment... when Alan died.”

The Moment of Collapse

Both men were now pale. Lyra and Eli watched in silence.

Zane sat down again. “Here’s what really happened.”

He gestured to Quentin. “You lured Alan in.”

He pointed to Samuel. “You were paid to help cover it up.”

He paused. “But then something went wrong.”

Zane pulled a folded note from his coat and placed it on the table. “Alan wrote this on a napkin. Found it in his jacket.”

It read: “If I disappear, Quentin Rowe is responsible.”

Silence.

Eli whispered, “Wow…”

Samuel's lips trembled. “I— I didn’t kill him. I swear. I just helped after—”

Zane leaned forward. “Then why did you lie about when you entered?”

Samuel’s voice cracked. “Because… I didn’t want to be blamed.”

Quentin shouted, “He was part of it! He was supposed to just drug him, not kill him—!”

Zane raised a hand. “There it is.”

He stood again. “The truth, at last.”

Lyra looked stunned. “You tricked them into accusing each other.”

Zane shrugged. “Guilt always leaks through the cracks.”

The Final Scene – Justice in Motion

Local police entered moments later. Quentin and Samuel were taken in custody, shouting over each other, both trying to rewrite their own stories again — but this time, the train of lies had derailed.

Eli stood quietly near the window. “You know… I didn’t think you’d crack it that fast.”

Lyra smiled faintly. “He never does it fast. He just makes it look fast.”

Zane walked back in, coat swinging, hands in pockets.

Eli looked up. “So... what was the key?”

Zane stared at him. “The silence.”

Eli blinked. “Huh?”

Zane gestured to the whole case. “Not the scream that no one heard. Not the time that no one could confirm. But the one thing that should have been there — a third teacup — and wasn’t. A missing object in a controlled environment. The moment that vanishes... is the moment that matters.”

Lyra nodded. “Brilliant.”

Zane smiled gently. “I live to serve.”

Eli looked impressed. “You should write books.”

Zane glanced at him. “Why ruin the ending?”

They all laughed — a rare, honest, exhausted laugh.

Final Paragraph — The Last Words

As they stepped out into the fog, the police lights fading behind them, Zane stopped for a moment. He looked up at the empty tracks stretching into the distance.

And then, softly, he said:

"Truth never lies in stories. It lies between them — in the contradiction they can't control."

Lyra turned toward him, quiet admiration in her eyes. Eli watched with rare silence, his usual chaos replaced by a quiet respect.

For a moment, neither said anything.

They just watched him.

And for once, even the fog stood still.

[THE END]