It came as something of a shock to Philomena Bucket when Reggie Upton mentioned, in passing, that it was his birthday.

Why this should have come as a shock is difficult to say. Philomena had never doubted that Reggie had, at some point, been born, so it stood to reason that he would, eventually, be the recipient of a birthday like anyone else.

It was just that… well, he was Reggie, and should surely be immune to the passage of time.

An old soldier, spry and dashing in his own faintly mothballed way, Reggie was the last person Philomena wanted to see fade gently into obscurity.

“He must be on the cemetery side of sixty, at least,” commented Rhys Cranham, up to his elbows in soapy water.

Philomena shot him a withering look as she accepted a freshly washed plate.

“That’s an awful thing to say,” she said. “Reggie is remarkably sprightly and dapper for a… ” She faltered.

“Senior citizen?” offered Rhys.

“I was going to say, for a man who has survived so many military campaigns.”

“He was an officer,” said Rhys. “Hardly cannon fodder, was he?”

“I think he’s seen his share of warfare,” Philomena replied flatly. “And now that we know it’s his birthday, we should give him a present.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “What on earth can we give Reggie that he hasn’t already got? He’s got more in that travelling trunk than everyone else on the island put together.”

This was true. Reggie’s trunk was cavernous, and the contents – bespoke suits, medals, monogrammed cravats, and an alarming number of dancing pumps – suggested an adventurous and rather theatrical life.

“We could throw him a party,” said Philomena. “Some food. A few drinks. A spot of entertainment, maybe.”

“Les Demoiselles?” said Rhys, a little too quickly.

“I suppose so, if  they’re willing to dance. Hopefully Mirielle has shaken off that poetry virus.”

When the Contagious Poetry epidemic recently swept through Hopeless, Maine, Mirielle D’Illay had taken longer than most to recover. Channelling the velvet-draped decadence of Paul Verlaine, she had acquired the uncharacteristic habit of whispering lilac-scented verse into her pillow and wandering the island barefoot.

Always ready to chase away the despondency that clings to Hopeless like its omnipresent fog, Philomena threw herself into party planning. The Edison Bell phonograph was ceremoniously retrieved from the attic, and its wax cylinders gently dusted. A curiously subdued and perfumed Mirielle promised the services of Les Demoiselles (formerly of the Moulin Rouge). Food and drink would be free to all, thereby assuring a good turnout.

The menu at The Squid and Teapot is, by necessity, inventive at the best of times. In honour of Reggie’s birthday, however, it edged into the exquisitely unorthodox. Alongside the inn’s signature Starry-Grabby Pie, Philomena’s array of crudités and charcuterie was served with a garnish of mystery and a strong recommendation not to ask too many questions.

The evening arrived. Regardless of their feelings for Reggie, the island’s usual suspects – including a suspiciously punctual Doc Willoughby – arrived early and jostled for the best seats, where discerning connoisseurs of the Terpsichorean arts might best appreciate the high-kicking talents of Les Demoiselles.

Drury, the skeletal hound, snored beneath a table, his occasional clattering twitches punctuating the hum of cutlery and conversational oddity. He was awaiting the inevitable strains of Molly Malone, as squeezed from the phonograph by a strangulated Irish tenor. Drury had developed a soft spot for the titular seafood vendor, who apparently plied her trade in thoroughfares of variable width.

Outside, the fog thickened.

And within it… something watched.

He’d been standing there for an hour. Perhaps longer. It was hard to say with the Glimmer Man. Time didn’t pass in his presence so much as slink away, ashamed.

Like many things on Hopeless, he had not asked to be there. He’d been spat out from some other dimension and stripped of everything but a coat stitched from shadows and a pair of glowing orange eyes, which tonight stared through the steamed windows with an expression not quite sad, not quite hungry, but some mournful cocktail of both.

He was beginning to unnerve the guests.

“Is he still there?” whispered Reggie, peering over his tankard of Old Colonel.

Philomena wiped her hands on her apron. “He is. And he’s started fogging the glass just by looking at it.”

“You can’t blame him,” muttered Norbert Gannicox. “He’s probably haunting us because he’s lonely.”

“He’s not haunting,” Philomena said firmly. “He’s loitering existentially.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” grumbled Rhys. “Why now?”

No one replied. No one truly knew what the Glimmer Man wanted. He did not speak. He barely moved. He simply yearned.

“Someone should talk to him,” Philomena said at last.

Rhys made a noise like a distressed pheasant and suddenly found something urgent to do in the kitchen.

With a sigh, and the calm authority of someone accustomed to banishing the uninvited dead, Philomena prepared to step outside. Then she felt a hand on her arm.

It was Mirielle D’Illay.

“Do not send him away,” she whispered, her usually raucous voice barely audible. “I feel his anguish.”

“Anguish?” Philomena blinked.

“Oui.” Mirielle took out a lavender-scented handkerchief. “I will speak to him.”

Philomena watched the dancer vanish into the mist. From the doorway, she caught the end of what Mirielle was murmuring; soft French verse, spoken to the night:

“Au calme clair de lune, triste et beau,
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres,
Et sangloter d’extase les jets d’eau,
Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres…”

“She’s still not rid of that poetry virus,” Philomena thought grimly. And yet, despite not understanding a word, she found herself weeping.

The fog was thick and still. The Glimmer Man watched Mirielle retreat into the inn. Philomena remained in the doorway, unmoving.

But he didn’t follow.

Instead, the air around him shimmered faintly in the moonlight, revealing the ghosts of things no one cared to remember: lost lovers, missed chances, birthdays forgotten again.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head. It might have been a nod. Or merely the flicker of an old sadness. The mist around him sighed. Philomena heard the faintest ripple of something like a voice, drifting across the veil:

“I was meant to meet someone… I think.”

She stepped closer. The fog curled around her feet  like curious cats.

“Who were you meeting?”

He did not reply. His eyes, though half-shrouded, held centuries of waiting.

“I don’t think they’re coming,” she said gently. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not welcome to stay. There’s a bench round the back; it faces the fen, where the marsh spirits live. You can see their lights from there sometimes.”

He didn’t move, but something in the atmosphere loosened. The air lightened, slightly.

Then the Glimmer Man turned – slowly, as if compelled by some internal tide – and walked around the side of the inn, fading into the fog. A shimmer of something grateful, or possibly  wistful, trailed in his wake.

Inside, the tension lifted like a fog-dampened blanket. Drury barked at a hatstand and went back to sleep.

Philomena re-entered, brushing droplets of mist from her sleeves.

“Well?” asked Rhys.

“He’s fine,” she said. “Mirielle and I appear to have soothed his anguish, between us.”

Rhys wisely said nothing. He had long since given up trying to understand what went on in his wife’s head.

And so, at The Squid and Teapot, life continued. Starry-Grabby pies were made, secrets exchanged, and lately, the melancholy figure occasionally peering through the window was met not with fear but with kindness.

After all, everyone on Hopeless is hoping for something.

Even the Glimmer Man.

Author’s Note: The lines spoken by Mirielle (chosen for their gentle sorrow and dreamlike atmosphere, in keeping with the quiet longing of the Glimmer Man) are taken from Clair de Lune (1869) by the French poet Paul Verlaine, a leading figure of the Symbolist movement.