Alan had had too much to drink and he knew it. The gig had run later than he’d imagined, well past the nine o’clock ETA he’d given to his girlfriend. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Sharon, Alan’s girlfriend of two years, could be trusted to be fairly understanding and often found Alan’s fuck-ups oddly charming. With a smile that was equal parts meek and debonair, something he’d worked to perfect all his life, Alan would finish her off with a few pecks on the cheek. All was forgiven.

But tonight, Alan’s phone had died. His return would be unannounced and thus, unexpected. No time to soften the blow. He’d forgotten to charge his quickly dying hunk of plastic. He was convinced he was one of the last few people in the world to own a blackberry and now he was reaping the consequences.

He was the drummer for the locally famous “Train Wreckreation”. They’d had a house gig tonight, Alan’s least favorite gig besides birthday parties (of any age). At twenty six, Alan had felt too old for the house show as soon as he’d walked in. It was a number of things that led to this realization, not least of which were the Christmas lights strung from the ceiling which illuminated the blowup sex doll. This hung from a rope as the basement’s most elegant décor. The smell of mildew and beer did nothing to help.

Alan had attempted to drink enough beer to leave this feeling behind. However, no amount of beer could help him leave behind the nagging feeling that he might be too old to be in a floundering band. He knew his mom would agree.

The lights ahead of Alan were flickering as if they’d auditioned for the Michael Jackson Thiller video but hadn’t gotten the role. The parking lot blinked, highlighting a lone red 97 accord. Alan would’ve passed without a second thought but a motion from beside the car caught his eye. Turning to face the lot, Alan was struck by the strangest of scenes.

A man, crouched over a man-hole cover had shifted himself, whispering intently. Alan, startled by the unexpected presence, took a step back. He surveyed the scene, ready to flee if the man made any sudden movement. Alan even put a hand in his pocket, gripping his wallet tightly. He was prepared to pretend he had a gun, or knife at the very least.

But the man made no sudden move. In fact, he hardly moved at all, seeming wholly uninterested in Alan, if he even knew Alan was there. Instead, the man was transfixed with the puffs of steam emerging from the slotted metal cap at his feet. He let it hit his face, wriggle along his beard, before breathing it in deeply. He whispered the whole while.

In was the whispering that kept Alan frozen to his spot on the sidewalk. The man looked the part of the homeless, all the way from his tattered “Philadelphia Water Department” neon vest to his finger-less gloves. He had a stained Looney Tunes beanie, a water bottle slung to his back, and a funnel attached to the belt loop of his blackened blue jeans. All signs for Philly normality were there; the whispering should’ve been no more than icing on the cake.

But the whispering didn’t seem to ramble.

If anything, he seemed to be conversing with the steam, pausing to listen and taking its thought into account before adding his own. In Alan’s experience, you could often find people talking to others that weren’t there, but it was rare to see them listen.

Before he knew it, Alan was approaching the man. He wanted to be a part of this conversation between mist and man, and this curiosity superseded any danger that this might put him in. By all accounts, it was a stupid move, which he realized even as his legs brought him closer. It was a move in which, if Alan had read in a newspaper about a man who got stabbed by a homeless guy after approaching him at night, he would’ve tried to feel sympathy but would ultimately feel the man had gotten what was coming to him. Alan approached all the same, finally coming to a crouch opposite the man.

The whispering had stopped upon Alan’s approach, although the man did not look up. He now had his hands outstretched to the steam, as one might warm himself at a bonfire. Alan did the same.

They sat this way for a moment, unspeaking and unmoving. The steam puffed in the odd rhythm of a coughing chain smoker.

The man was the first to speak.

“Do you hear it too?”

His voice was gravely. He lifted his head slowly to look Alan in the eyes. Alan’s heart started beating like a rabbit’s. He had forgotten briefly about the danger of the moment. Now he remembered it all.

Alan did not run though. He locked eyes with the man who’s brown pupils seemed to crinkle within their hollow, veiny pockets.

“Hear what?”

“The whispers. If you listen, they speak.”

Alan continued to look at the man, gauging how much insanity seemed to lurk behind his eyes. To his surprise, they looked clear despite the strangeness. The man stopped twiddling with his beard and gave a nod towards the mist. Give it a try is what he seemed to say without speaking. So Alan did.

Leaning forward onto the balls of his feet, Alan turned his ear towards the steam and waited. And he waited and he waited . The night seemed to hold its breath, save the exhales of the sewer.

Then he heard it.

Like the first voices to break you subconscious from its morning dreams, they began to surface. At first they were undecipherable, unknowable, and foreign. Alan continued to listen, captivated.

“What are they saying?”

Alan looked at the homeless- looking man, but only saw him press his finger to his lips. Most of the finger was lost in the brambles of his beard.

The whispers continued to trickle out with the mist, as natural and calming as a babbling brook.

“Alann…”

Had he imagined it? Was he listening too intently. Was his mind playing tricks on him?

No, he heard it again, this time as if it were a choir heard from outside of the church.

“Alann…”

“Are you hear-“ began Alan, but he didn’t get a chance to finish.

Without noticing, the man had stood up. He was now draping the reflective “Philadelphia Water Department” vest over Alan’s shoulders.

“Take care, Alan,” said the man, though Alan did not remember sharing his name, “and remember, just because the mist whispers something, it doesn’t make it true.”

Alan would have asked him to clarify, but he was already whispering the words he was hearing hiss from below.

He didn’t, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t allow himself to miss anything important.