On another hot summer day, I sat under the cool fan while my coworker restocked the shelves.
Their face was soft—pretty enough to be mistaken for a girl’s—but their clothes, loose and shapeless, never gave anything away.
The only thing that ever stood out about them was their hair: as red as fate’s strings.
I never bothered to ask their name.
They never offered it either.

Our days were spent in silence.
Not awkward. Not calm. Just pure, soundless silence.
When kids came running in after school, they acted like the store was some kind of sacred library.
Even crying babies went quiet the second they stepped inside.
It wasn’t that anyone told them not to talk.
It was just that the chill between two introverts seemed to freeze the sound before it could even form.

Lately, I kept catching them glancing at their phone.
I wanted to ask what was so important—why they checked it so often.
But the words never came out.
Instead, I found myself glaring at some poor kid checking their phone—like they were doing something I wasn’t allowed to.

Because of whatever strange rhythm we had, customers started calling us the Side Store’s Silent Twins—or just the Silent Twins.
Then, one day, they showed up just a little later than usual.
At first, I thought it was a one-time thing.
It wasn’t.
They started showing up less—if at all.

After that, time got weird.
I’d catch myself getting ready for work in the middle of the night, or clocking out three hours too early.

That’s not even the worst part.
When I’m alone in the store, I catch myself talking to them—even though I know they’re not there.
I ask where I put the new drinks or where the paper towels went.
Every time, my stomach drops when there’s no reply.
It’s like waking up at home, but all the light switches are in the wrong place.

Then, it happened.
After a long-awaited normal day, I found a note tucked in the register.
With it: a bracelet the same red as their hair, and a single word: “bye.”

Since then, the store hasn’t been the same.
Kids started talking, babies began crying, and the Silent Twins were no more.
All that remained was me—and my bright red bracelet.

I found myself fidgeting with the bracelet every time I thought of them—when it was time to open or close the store, or when I needed to restock snacks.
That’s when their absence started to weigh on me.
The final straw came when a kid walked in and asked why I seemed so down lately—if I’d lost someone important.
He never asked about the other guy.
He didn’t even seem to remember him.
I just stared blankly.
When I couldn’t answer, I knew I had to find them.

I searched through catalog after catalog, looking for their address.
Nothing.
It was like they’d vanished—or maybe they were never really there.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and soon it was the middle of winter.
A harsh snowfall knocked out the power at our store.
By then, I thought I would have gotten over them—but in the dark, I still called out, asking for their help to turn the power back on.
In the pitch-black, snowed-in convenience store, I begged them to come back.
To silently sit with me again, just once more.

Even though I missed them, I still had a shop to run and shelves to stock.
When spring finally rolled around again, posters of new beginnings appeared—lazily taped to the store windows.

Then, one fateful day, the doorbell rang.
It wasn’t them.
And it wasn’t a customer either.

He was a small blond boy with dark, grown-out roots and a pierced ear.
He walked in holding a “Help Wanted” poster, a sunlit smile lighting up his face.
He wasn’t like them—he talked to me about his day and laughed at his small mistakes.

Every once in a while, I catch myself staring at the bracelet, remembering them.
I wonder where they are now—or if they were ever real at all.
I pray that one day I’ll see them again, and if I do, that I’ll have the courage to ask their name.

Until then, I’ll stand guard, manning the shop alongside this new, unpredictable kid.