Evening light slipped through the tavern's shutters, soft and hazy, the kind that made everything look gentler than it was. Leon stepped inside Bram's house for what he already felt would be one of his last times as a resident. The tavern area was quiet at this hour; no clattering mugs, no drunken arguments, no stove heat rolling out from the kitchen. Just the faint smell of old ale and wood polish.
His room was small and barely furnished, but over the past week it had become something close to familiar. A folded blanket, a wooden stool, a sack with his spare shirt and a few items Bram had given him in exchange for all the work he had done. Seven days wasn't long, but it was long enough for things to settle on you without warning.
