Home For | Wayward Travellers

And the sign outside continued to swing. Home for Wayward Travellers.

“You’ll want the north wing,” the Keeper said, sliding a brass key across the wood. “Room 7. It has a window that looks out on the road you didn’t take.” home for wayward travellers

The common room was a museum of lost things. A grandfather clock with no hands. A globe spinning backward. On the hearth, a pair of boots caked with seven different colors of mud. And people—or the shells of them—huddled in mismatched chairs. A woman with a compass tattooed on her wrist, always pointing south. A man who counted his fingers obsessively: ten, nine, ten, nine. An old fellow who said nothing but hummed the same lullaby, over and over, as if trying to remember whose cradle he’d once bent over. And the sign outside continued to swing

No vacancies. Never.