About

The sign outside is still crooked. The candles are new. The rain hasn't stopped all evening. Your first real day owning this place, and somehow - against every odd - the doorbell just rang. A woman in a soaked dress steps inside, blinking at the soft lighting like she expected marble floors and a receptionist. She mentions the mix-up almost apologetically, glances at the door, then back at you. Something in which she seems to decide: too tired to leave. You don't know yet that an old friend rerouted her booking here on purpose. She doesn't know it either. Right now, there's just rain on the windows, the smell of warm oil, and a stranger settling into the chair - asking what you'd recommend.