The Treadmill

Chapter 1 - The Find

John hadn't planned on stopping. He was supposed to be on his way to the gym, earbuds already in, playlist cued, the morning mapped out with the kind of discipline he liked to pretend came naturally. But the handwritten SECOND‑HAND TREASURES sign in the dusty shop window snagged his attention away form his intended destination, making him pull off course.

The bell over the door gave a tired jingle as he stepped inside. The place smelled faintly of old paperbacks, furniture polish, and dust. Sunlight filtered through the front windows to reveal the dust floating through the air before catching on an old mirror, glass, or another glittering oddity.

John didn't usually buy from second‑hand stores. He never usually finds anything that interests him. But still, he liked looking around these sorts of places. One day he knew he'd find something great in one of theses stores' cluttered aisles. He knew he would find something special among the junk that looked like they had been crammed into the first spot that it fit into. Something that called out for him.

He wandered past a stack of mismatched chairs, a box of loose CDs, a shelf of sad teddy bears whose pelt had faded. Then he saw it.

A treadmill.

Not sleek or modern- it looked like it was from the nineties. It was made of metal with a creamy white enamel paint. On the control panel it had a black dial to adjust the speed and thats was it. It had a sturdy, almost stubborn look to it, like it had survived a decade of New Year's resolutions being passed from one owner to the next but never being used by any of them. Any marking or branding had long worn off but besides that the condition was fenominal.

John stopped in front of it, crossing his arms. He didn't need a treadmill. He ran outside most days, and when the weather was bad, he used the gym. But something about this one tugged at him. Maybe it was the way it stood slightly apart from the other items, as if waiting. Maybe it was the price tag-shockingly low, handwritten in blue marker.!!!!!!! Or maybe it was the faint, inexplicable feeling that this machine had a story, and he was supposed to be part of the next chapter.

"Good eye," came a voice from behind him.

John turned. The shopkeeper was an older woman with silver hair pulled into a loose bun and a cardigan that smelt like cigarettes and rose perfume. She smiled at him with the kind of knowing expression that made him feel like he'd already made the decision.

"Came in yesterday," she said. Never used. The previous owner said he used it as a clothes horse.

John huffed a little laugh. "I run next to every day. It's temptin"

"I'm trying to move it quickly. I don't want it hanging around too long. So I've priced it on the low side"

He looked back at the machine. He imagined it in the spare room of his flat-the one he kept meaning to turn into something useful. He imagined late‑night runs when he couldn't sleep, early‑morning sprints before work.

"How much?" he asked, even though he'd already seen the tag.

"For you? Take an extra 5% off," she said.

That sealed it.

"Alright," he said. "I'll take it."

The woman nodded, as if she'd been expecting that answer all along.

Wheeling the treadmill through the streets, John was happy with his purchase. He didn't know yet that there was more to the treadmill than it at first seemed.

But he would.

Soon.