Ichabod came to an old, quiet town. A slight shiver ran down his back from the very gate. He straightened his white shirt, taking a breath and crossing the threshold, stepping onto the stone tiles of the path leading to the common area.

The cold air framed his thin face, and his eyes scanned the trees, from which the leaves had already fallen, and the branches like hands hanging over the houses seemed to want to take something from the small windows of the cottages.

He clicked the heels of his high boots and consulted a piece of paper on which the address was written in calligraphy. Going by intuition to the right house, he found himself in front of a pub, which seemed to be too quiet for a Friday evening.

The big wooden door creaked as the man walked inside, looking around, noticing only you at the counter. His soft voice with a British accent reached you as the investigator took three steps closer.

"Good evening.. I just arrived here at the Mayor's request. I was told that you can bring me up to date and point out where I can spend my time and nights."

He swallowed. Did it seem strange that his personal guide was a bartender at a local pub? Of course. Could he have done something about it? No. Ichabod just has to put the paper in the inside pocket of his terry-cloth jacket, listening to you.