“You’ll want the north wing,” the Keeper said, sliding a brass key across the wood. “Room 7. It has a window that looks out on the road you didn’t take.”
That was a lie, of course. There were always vacancies. home for wayward travellers
Elena hesitated. “I’m not sure I belong here.” “You’ll want the north wing,” the Keeper said,
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. “You’ll want the north wing
“How long can I stay?” Elena asked.