Home For Wayward Travellers | 2021

“How long can I stay?” Elena asked.

Behind a counter of scarred walnut stood the Keeper. She had no name, or perhaps she’d forgotten it. Her eyes were the color of rain on pavement. She didn't ask Elena why she’d come. She never did. home for wayward travellers

The sign swung on a single rusted hinge, creaking a confession in the wind: HOME FOR WAYWARD TRAVELLERS . Beneath it, someone had scratched in charcoal: No vacancies. Ever. “How long can I stay

Elena pushed through the oak door, which gave with a groan like a tired old dog. Inside, the air smelled of stew, woodsmoke, and the peculiar silence of a place that had heard every story before. Her eyes were the color of rain on pavement

That night, she slept without dreaming for the first time in years. When she woke, the Keeper was at her door with a tray: tea that tasted like forgiveness, bread that broke without crumbs.

That was a lie, of course. There were always vacancies.