He wasn't a morning person. When the alarm went off at 6am, he pressing the snooze button his watch and nod back off. He could do that three times before half past, when he knew he really had to get up. He'd be awake, but not happy about the fact. Some people, he thought were mental. He'd know a work colleague who rose at 5, so they could go to the gym or walk the dog before driving to the office.

Yeah, but nope.

The woman was the same. Abby, with her dog Rufus.

Of course, he was pretty sure she wasn't actually called Abby, and nor would her dog be a Rufus. He'd just seen her so often from his bedroom or lounge window, at pretty much the same time, walking past with the lead in one hand and her phone in the other, that he knew her.

He'd had conversations in his head with her on multiple occasions. Friendly chats where they exchanged pleasantries before she went on her way and he remembered he was meant to be getting ready himself. Nothing creepy, though. He wasn't secretly in love with Abby – she wasn't his type, being female – but they could be friendly.

Thinking about it, she was extremely punctual. She must leave her house at exactly the same time, and walk at precisely the same speed. And Rufus, the Doberman, couldn't pause to relieve his bladder or bowels before passing his home, or did so, again, at exactly the same moment, along their walk. Because... it wasn't pretty much the same time. It was exactly.

It was one of those things you noticed, but don't really notice. It struck him as slightly odd, but not enough for the fact to settle in his mind. Other thoughts blew the knowledge away, not allowing it to stand up and say hey, look at me! Recognise me. Know me.

But, today, it did. Today, at 6:54, he realised Abby and Rufus walked past at exactly 6:54 every single morning.

He checked his watch, to ensure its time was synched with his phone on the bedside charger, which it would be, because they were linked together and both ran on Internet time, or some fancy automatic thimgumigig. He glanced at the television screen, where Suzanna Reid was smiling and speaking and muted, because he wanted the company but not the noise.

6:54.

There was Abby, in her smart, office clothes, accessorised nicely by her scruffy but comfortable looking trainers. There was Rufus, the dachshund, trotting along beside her.

He smiled. He couldn't be so precise in his day. He liked things to be a little more chaotic. A little more unpredictable. Though, in a day as tumultuous as that, Abby and her labrador, Moses, were the raft on which he could grasp to stop himself drowning.

Perhaps, tomorrow, he'd go out and make one of those conversations a reality. He always like pet cats.