The carpetmen

The little corner shop still stood, hunched at the bend of a street long forgotten. It used to smell of leather and old newspapers, the shelves lined with boots, rough cotton overalls, and hand-written price tags that curled with time. You hadn’t been back in years.

When you stepped inside, it was still, too still. The bell above the door didn’t ring. A thick layer of dust clung to the counter, but the lights were on in the back. That’s when you saw them.

Men in too-sharp suits, smiling without warmth, loitered in the rear third of the shop. Rolls of carpet leaned against the boot racks, their colours garish, clashing with the muted browns and greys of honest workwear. They weren’t browsing. They were waiting.

The old man who owned the place sat quietly behind the till, eyes cloudy but alert. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. You got the feeling he knew what they were doing. Everyone did.

The carpetmen whispered among themselves, circling the backroom like jackals dressed as gentlemen. Not rushing. Just waiting. Waiting for the moment his pulse would falter, the light behind the eyes would go out, and the shop, his shop, would finally be theirs.

You left without buying anything. But you could swear that as the door closed behind you, one of them looked up and smiled.