We shared a grin as the subway screeched to a stop. He waved and stepped off, disappearing into the crowd. As the doors closed, I leaned back, watching the station blur, reminded that not every glance is cutting.
Some simply spark a faint twinkle amidst the noise.
Now, Moonhaven stretches modestly, a village practicing small-town magics with meticulous ease. I can almost believe it's untouched by time's harsher hands. Here, the town itself almost offers permission to become nothing more than a quiet observer. A ghost again in a world that knows how to keep its secrets.
Of course, I’ve thought that about places before. Airports. Grocery stores. The internet. Hope has a short attention span.
A clerk in the local store, mid-conversation with another customer about canning supplies, smiles when I enter. Her pleasantries are brief, engaging only enough to pass the time amicably.
"Where's home, dear?" she asks, tucking something absent-mindedly into a paper bag.
"Oh, I used to live in New York City," I reply nonchalantly, sifting through assorted souvenirs.
She nods, accepting—or perhaps disregarding, and that suits me just fine. It strikes not of indifference, but of mutual respect for boundaries, a welcome antidote to probing curiosity.
The inn stands with the resolute comfort one finds in familiar solitude. Its charm is adorably old-world, and its facade is timeless, echoing with the stories of those who’ve come seeking solace or sanctuary.
At the door, its weathered wood welcomes as it repels, the keeper of layered mysteries. I hesitate for a heartbeat, burdened by an impulse to assign meanings to things too often left unsaid.
Inside, warmth folds around me, the scent of cozy spaces compounded with time’s passage. Jim, the innkeeper, meets me with a nod that speaks of seasoned understanding—a trait honed sharper than his environment’s edges.
“Welcome to Moonhaven,” he intones, voice gravel beneath river stones. "Name’s Jim."
“Ellie Carter,” I reply, careful that the syllables fall gently, as if touched by autumn’s lush brushstrokes. “I’ve booked temporary lodgings.”
"Here for the sights?" Jim asks.
I can’t help but smile as I take in the obvious prying wrapped in practiced indifference.
"Research, really. A little writing."
Jim watches me the way people do when they’re deciding whether to keep talking.
“You write about anything I should worry about?” he asks mildly.
“Only if you’ve got secret tunnels or dramatic skeletons,” I say.
He snorts. “Disappointing.”
“I aim to underdeliver.”
He slides the key across the counter. “People usually come here to be left alone.”
“That’s a selling point,” I admit.
“Most don’t last.”
I pause. “I’m good at staying put.”
He studies me a moment longer, then nods, satisfied or bored — I can’t tell which.
“Breakfast’s optional,” he says.
“So is conversation,” I reply.
His mouth twitches. “You’ll fit right in.”
"Sweet room with a view of the woods. Real kind of solitude," he gestures upwards, leaning a little too close but not unpleasantly so, as if proximity might enhance hospitality.