The man told me, “I am sorry,” as he wiped crimson from his hands with a cloth. Despite his attempts to keep me from seeing the rust color dried to his nails. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he rushed on and I could tell he was trying to keep his voice calm. I raised a brow inquisitively at him, chuckling almost, as I raised a hand to adjust my top hat.
“Not at all my fellow, I was just going to a rather nice café down the street. May I ask for your company as I travel?” My voice hung in the air between us and he nodded, slowly at first, before taking to my side. As our boots clacked over the cobblestone streets of London I murmured to my quiet new friend: “tell me, what is your name, fellow?”
He paused before saying in a slow voice, “they call me…Jack.” The next morning I was intrigued to hear that ‘The Ripper’ had struck again, as I sat over tea with my companion…
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