For Wayward Travellers — Home

And the sign outside continued to swing. Home for Wayward Travellers.

“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.” home for wayward travellers

“How long can I stay?” Elena asked.

Up the creaking stairs, past doors with no numbers, only whispers. Room 7 was small, warm, unbearably kind. The window showed not a view, but a memory: a fork in a forest path, one side overgrown with brambles, the other still wet from recent rain. The Elena in the memory stood at the crossroads for a long, long time. And the sign outside continued to swing

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. “Room 7

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.