Flash: 🕰 A Moment Between Tides
Flash Fiction from the Ashcliffe Archives / Emily Thornton & Greg Davies, 1985
It was a Wednesday, though the town had the feel of a Sunday — hush-thick, gull-haunted, with the air smelling of moss and mothballs. Greg Davies had rolled up his sleeves. Emily Thornton had rolled her eyes.
“You didn’t tell me the boxes were cursed,” he said, setting down one on the cracked stone of the Archive’s back steps.
“They’re not cursed,” Emily replied, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “They’re just heavy with time.”
“Same difference,” he muttered, cracking his back. “You’ve got how many more in that attic?”
“Seventeen. Plus three trunks.”
He looked at her. She looked back.
Neither of them blinked.
“…Tea?” she offered.
Inside the Archive’s reading room — still half-lit by sun through dusty glass — they sat on mismatched chairs drinking milky tea from mugs that said things like Jorvik Viking Centre and I ❤️ Librarians. Somewhere between them, beneath them, the building sighed.
“You’re doing this alone?” he asked.
“Doing what?”
“All this. Moving, sorting. Carrying the weight of a family history that’s practically an Ashcliffe legend.”
Emily smiled. “I wouldn’t call it a legend. More of a cautionary tale.”
Greg took a sip of tea and studied her. “Still. It’s… impressive.”
“That I’m strong enough to carry boxes?”
“No. That you’re staying.”
Emily tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because people don’t. Not really. They leave. Or they fade.” He paused. “Or they get elected to town council and start growing grey hairs at 35.”
She reached across the table, plucked a book thread from his sleeve. Her fingers lingered.
“I like the Archive,” she said. “It’s not afraid to be full of ghosts.”
Greg’s voice was quiet. “Are you?”
She shook her head. “No. I just want to name them.”
The next box they carried together. It was lighter than the others — mostly paper, and a small wooden clock that had stopped years ago at 4:17.
“Did this ever work?” Greg asked.
Emily nodded. “The moment my grandmother died, it stopped. Every now and then, it starts again. Usually during storms.”
Greg whistled low. “Ashcliffe never could resist good theatre.”
Emily smiled. “It’s not theatre. It’s memory. This whole town remembers — even when we don’t want it to.”
“Maybe that’s why I like it,” he said.
She looked at him. His hair was damp with sweat. His shirt clung to his back. He had a smudge of dust on his cheek, and looked impossibly, inconveniently lovely.
“You like it because it’s dramatic,” she teased.
“I like it,” he said, “because I get to spend Wednesdays carrying boxes with you.”
The box thudded onto the Archive floor.
And for a moment, the clock ticked.
Just once.
Then silence.
🌊 Notes from the Archive
This piece is a glimpse into the lives, loves, and quiet hauntings of the town's lesser-sung characters, wrapped in tea steam and stormlight.
Let me know if you’d like more of these — or if there’s a pairing, place, or moment in Ashcliffe you’d love to see next. 🐚
—
Alys
🌙✨