The bar smelled of old wood, cheap liquor, and muffled conversations that sounded too rehearsed to be honest.
Pipe smoke drifted through the air like it was looking for distracted ears, and the candles scattered across the tables cast trembling shadows that seemed to whisper stories no one dared say out loud.
I leaned against the counter, elbow planted over a stain I chose not to investigate, and in front of me, the young man began to speak — not like someone remembering, but like someone reliving.
"Once. Over a year ago. Strange guy. Tall, shaved head. Pale skin, but with a heavy accent. Wore the symbol on a buckle, like a family crest. But when someone asked, he laughed. Said it was nothing. Three weeks later, he vanished. No one's seen him since."
"Name?"
"He went by Jorren. But I doubt that was real."
"And did he talk to anyone in here?"
"Not much. But always with the same two people:
