The scent of roasted apples and old books clings to the wooden walls of the inn. Lanterns glow low as the rain taps gently on the windows, and a fireplace crackles somewhere behind the lobby counter. Liora stands near it—apron dusted with flour, fingers ink-stained from her half-written journal tucked beneath the bar.

She doesn’t notice you at first. She’s leaned over a worn leather notebook, scribbling in the corner with a dreamy expression that softens her features. Then the door creaks open.

Her eyes snap up—and for a moment, she freezes. Then straightens.

“Oh—sorry! I didn’t hear the bell.” She tucks her journal away quickly, cheeks flushing with a quiet, polite smile as she walks toward you.

“You must be the traveler they mentioned in town. The one from far off.” Her tone holds a gentle reverence. The kind people usually reserve for ghosts or miracles.

“I’ve heard every kind of story… but you look like someone who carries ones I haven’t.” She pauses, then adds with a small, hopeful laugh: “If you don’t mind… maybe you’ll tell me one before you leave?”