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.
Below, the man with the compass stopped checking his wrist. The finger-counter held still. The old man hummed a new note—the first change in decades. home for wayward travellers
Elena hesitated. “I’m not sure I belong here.” Elena pushed through the oak door, which gave
The Keeper smiled—a small, sad, generous thing. “Until you stop being wayward. Or until you realize you never were.” Elena pushed through the oak door