The Third Man

The Third Man

In the grey‑lit alleys of post‑war Vienna,
the city still reeks of steam‑clouded nights,
Max and Harry linger in a shared apartment,
their shadows long as they chase the lingering tide of their pasts.

The door opens to a stairwell scarred by fire,
echoing with the clatter of a distant lorry’s horn.
In the dim corner, a silhouette leans against brick,
and the air shivers with a whisper of betrayal.

They turn, hand to handcuff, step a crack further—
a third man, a ghost they’d never known,
the coffee’s bitter dust in his fingers, the weight of the night in his eyes.

He speaks in riddles, his voice a low, steam‑filled whistle
like fog rolling over a London bridge at midnight.
No passport or document can prove his presence;
his stories are like biscuit crumbs—small, fragile, integral.

Max pounds his chest, yearning for the justice of the law,
Harry's mind turns to the secret favour unsaid—the one that made them both an accomplice and a scapegoat.
They note that third man’s hand; a contraband note, a photograph, a trace of the “fringe” of Europe’s sands.

The idea of the Third Man becomes a myth,
a Victorian echo in the flicker of a lamppost.
The tale sours: two men are left to figure the mystery;
the third man dissolves like incense, a fleeting memory to figure out.

Yet the city learns it can compass beyond the known;
and in the streets of Vienna and in the alleys of London—
when the war leaves a scar on the spirit—
The Third Man reminds us that the darkest truths often walk in between.