Colin slipped into the studio kitchen of Quick Pixel just as the kettle clicked off, hoping the hiss of sachet coffee might mask the fact he was ten minutes late. It did not.
Matteo materialised in the doorway, beard bristling with purpose.
“Mate,” he said, “where were you Saturday? I rang six times. Steve rang twice. Radio silence.”
Colin’s head was still half-full of sea air and cheap chips; it took him a beat to translate.
“I was in Blackpool,” he said, stirring the coffee so vigorously it frothed. “Weekend, remember those? Thought I’d be allowed one.”
“You’re allowed to breathe,” Matteo snapped. “You’re not allowed to ignore the entire front-end when the client’s demo is Wednesday.”
Colin produced his phone, more for show than necessity, and frowned at the lock screen. No notifications. He thumbed into the call log—and stopped. A neat red column of missed calls stared back: Matteo (4), Steve (1), Matteo (2). Saturday afternoon, Saturday night, Sunday lunchtime.
He blinked.
“I swear these weren’t here yesterday.”
Matteo rolled his eyes. “Do-Not-Disturb?”
“No.”
“Signal?”
“Had bars all day.”
“Possessed by the spirit of a landline from 1993?”
Colin managed a weak smile. “Look, it’s weird, but it happened. Or didn’t. Either way, we’re where we are.”
“Which is two days behind.” Matteo shoved a stack of wireframes into Colin’s hands. “Hero slider’s mis-aligned in Safari, checkout falls over in IE—yes, we still have to care—and the mobile nav opens sideways if you so much as sneeze at it.”
“IE?! Jesus, that ghost still stalks me. That’ll be the flex container,” Colin muttered, scanning the screenshots. “Probably needs a min-width clamp and a forced repaint.”
“Great. Explain that to the client at eleven.”
“We’ll wing it,” Colin said, trying for breezy and landing somewhere nearer anaemic. “I’ll hack a patch by lunch, stay late tonight, refactor tomorrow. Demo will sing on Wednesday.”
Matteo exhaled through his nose, half relief, half disbelief. “You’re lucky you’re good.”
“That,” Colin said, heading to his desk, “is the repository of my self-worth.”
Friday, 5:48 p.m.
The week behaved the way unmaintained codebases do: one fixed bug generating two siblings, every quick patch exposing a new, faintly ridiculous edge-case. But by close of play Friday the demo stack compiled, the client was pacified, and Steve declared it “solid work, team,” which in Steve-speak was practically an embrace.
Colin packed his rucksack under his desk: one change of clothes, toothbrush, paperback novel he knew he wouldn’t open. He’d placed the bag there at eight that morning, just in case the idea returned. Now, waiting for the 192 in Piccadilly Gardens, he felt it tug again—a muted but definite pull westward.
Rain freckled the paving slabs; buses hissed like temperamental beasts; a group of teenagers took turns shouting lyrics at a bluetooth speaker. Home was three miles south and full of undone laundry. Blackpool was an hour by rail and full of... nothing, really. Nothing was attractive.
He looked at his watch, then at the rucksack, then at the bus lurching into view. Decided. Stepped back from the curb.
Forty seconds later he was walking uphill on Oldham Street, past the vegan bakery and the shuttered record shops, cutting the familiar S-bend toward the station. The decision felt oddly frictionless, as though it had been waiting for his body to catch up.
Inside Piccadilly the departure board flicked laconically: Blackpool North 18:23 On time. He bought a ticket, found a seat, and watched the city unspool again in reverse. No colleague calls now, no crisis pings—just the faint vibration of the train and the thought, both comforting and inexplicable, that whatever lay ahead would require nothing more from him than his arrival.