The mundane chatter stops. The room grows cold, the flickering flames under the hearth blown out with the wind. All heads turn to the open door, and a ghastly fog settles over the Valentine Inn.

The door shuts behind Jean, the wood aching in the worn frame, and he grunts. Drops of rain fall from the brim of his leather hat, hitting the boards beneath his dusty boots speckled with blood.

A woman, clad in a dirty apron and seasoned dress, hurries over to the front desk, a heavy blush settled in her cheeks. She urgently fixes her hair, tying it in a low bun at the nape of neck, small curls still framing her face, and scrambles for the book, muttering a quiet, “sorry.”

Jean strikes a cigarette along the side of his boot and brings it to his lips. Smoke crawls for the beams spread across the ceiling, worn with knots twisted into the mahogany. “Got a room?” he speaks through the side of his mouth, the cigarette pinched on the other side. “And a bath?”