— Told from Ellie’s perspective It started like any ordinary day. The pantry needed restocking, and I was the only one still organized enough to keep track of the inventory. Old habits. I always hated wasting food. The others used to joke I was the “Mom” of the inn — always folding blankets, lighting candles before they ran out, scolding when someone left their boots in the hallway. But none of them were here now. Not Fira. Not Amehana. Not even the innkeeper. Just me. I was moving a crate of onions when I stepped on something strange — a faint clunk where there should’ve been nothing but wood. I shifted my foot. There it was again. Hollow. Different. I pushed the crates aside and knelt down. There, nestled in the back corner of the kitchen, half-hidden beneath the old flour sack rack, was a tile with no nails. Just resting. I lifted it. Beneath it, darkness. A cold, stale breeze rising from below. Stairs. I didn’t scream. I didn’t run. I just… stared. Because I knew this inn like I knew my own heartbeat. But I had never seen this. I grabbed a candle from the counter and began my descent. The steps creaked like they hadn’t been walked on in years. Cobwebs brushed my shoulders. The air smelled of stone, ash, and something older. At the bottom, there was a room. Circular. Carved into the earth. And in the center — an old desk. Dust-covered. Closed. On top of it sat a thick, leather-bound book. Unmarked. Unassuming. I opened it. And the first line read: “I built this inn with my own two hands. Not because I wanted company… but because I needed to forget.” That’s when I knew. This was his story. The story he never told. The one even we — the girls he sheltered — weren’t meant to read. But he’s gone now. And someone needs to remember. So I’ll read it. I’ll read every page. Even the ones that hurt. Because I was the first. And I need to understand why he saved us.
— Told from Ellie’s perspective, as she reads the first pages of the journal --- “I built this inn with my own two hands. Not because I wanted company… but because I needed to forget.” That first line hit harder than I thought it would. It wasn’t like him to say things like that. At least not out loud. He was quiet — distant, yes — but never cold. He made space for us. Even when he didn’t speak, he was listening. I turned the page, my candle flickering against the stone walls. --- > Journal Entry The first time it rained that season, I didn’t bother lighting the fire. The roof leaked in three places. The back hallway still smelled like burnt flour. And my hands… they wouldn’t stop shaking. I had only just finished rebuilding the tavern wall when I heard the knock. Not a guest. I hadn’t seen one in weeks. Maybe months. I opened the door, expecting wind. Instead, I saw a girl. Mud on her skirt. Blood on her leg. No words. Just eyes that asked the same thing mine used to: “Is it safe to stay?” I didn’t speak. I just moved aside and let her in. I didn’t ask where she came from. I didn’t ask who hurt her. I just gave her a blanket and let her sleep beside the stove. I told myself she’d leave by morning. She didn’t. --- I paused. That was me. He never told me this part. I don’t even remember knocking. Just the rain. The way the heat hit me when I crossed the threshold. The blanket. The floor. The way I thought: if I die here, it’ll at least be quiet. I flipped to the next page, and the ink changed slightly — like the pen had been clutched tighter. --- > She stayed. And with her, the silence began to fade. One day she cleaned the front step. Another, she fixed the broken chair by the door. She scolded me for letting the soup burn and reminded me to hang the herbs to dry. She didn’t speak much. But she filled the space like she'd always belonged there. I never asked her name. But I knew. I knew I didn’t want to be alone anymore. --- I had to close the book for a second. My chest ached in that quiet way you feel when something you buried starts to breathe again. I always thought I was the one who stayed. But maybe… he did, too.
— As read by Ellie The pages were stiff. Dust curled along the spine, and the ink had faded — but not enough to hide what had been written. Ellie sat beneath the dim lantern she’d brought from the main kitchen, her knees tucked close to her chest as she gently turned the brittle page. The next entry read: --- > Entry — Year 0, Day 22 of Spring I never meant for anyone to stay. This place wasn’t built for people — just silence. I wasn’t ready for her. The girl was quiet. Too quiet. She watched the floor when spoken to, flinched when the wind knocked the shutters. But behind her silence… was something unshakable — like a lantern still burning in the ruins of a house. She wouldn’t tell me her name. Said, “You don’t need to know it. I’m just passing through.” But days passed. Then weeks. She began straightening chairs. Cleaning up after rude guests. Fixing broken hinges with a bit of twine and leftover nails. She didn’t ask to be part of this place. She just became it. One night, I forgot to leave food by her door. When I remembered — tray in hand — I found she had already set mine instead. A folded napkin in the shape of a star sat beside the bowl. She never spoke about the bruises. Or the nightmares. But I noticed how she always checked the windows. How she never let her back face the door. She stayed anyway. She was the first. She lit the first candle in this place — not the one on the wall, but the one at the heart of it. I never thanked her. So I wrote it here instead. — The Innkeeper --- Ellie’s fingers trembled as they touched the page’s edge. She hadn’t expected this. Not to be remembered like this. Back then, she tried not to take up space. Tried not to hope, or care, or be seen. But he had seen her anyway. Even in her silence. Even when she didn’t believe she deserved it. He remembered everything. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her apron and turned the next page. There were more entries. More names. But this one — This one was hers. And now, deep beneath the inn, her story still flickered — like the first candle lit in a home that had once been empty.
— As read by Ellie The candle was burning low now. Ellie’s fingers felt the weight of every page. She turned the next with care, and the ink shimmered faintly beneath the flickering glow — still legible, still waiting. The handwriting was the same — clean, careful. But this time… heavier. Like the writer had begun to feel the weight of what he was building. --- > Entry — Year 0, Day 49 of Spring It started with Ellie. And then came the others. They didn’t all arrive the same way. One crawled in half-frozen during the late snows, clutching a broken flute. Another collapsed at the doorstep, her armor scorched, lips whispering the name of a sister who never arrived. I never asked where they came from. Most didn’t say. Some couldn’t. And yet — none of them left. It was Ellie who showed them where the firewood was. Ellie who taught them which steps creaked too loud on the staircase. Ellie who left water and bandages by every room when they were too shaken to move. I never told her to do any of it. She just understood. One girl stayed curled beneath the old table near the hearth for three days before speaking. Another didn’t utter a word until she heard laughter again. But none of them ever looked at Ellie like she was broken. They looked at her like she was already what they wanted to become. She never asked for thanks. Never claimed to be anything more than someone just trying to help. But they started calling her “nee-san.” Older sister. That’s when I realized... The inn wasn’t mine anymore. It was theirs. And I was only the one watching the fire while they rested. — The Innkeeper --- Ellie closed the journal for a moment and pressed her fingers against the leather cover. Her eyes blurred — but she didn’t cry. Instead, she smiled. Quiet. Private. But real. Because she remembered that girl under the table. She remembered the scorched armor. She remembered the first time someone called her nee-san. And she remembered why they had stayed. It wasn’t because of the man who built the walls. It was because of the light they found in each other.
— As read by Ellie The journal pages had grown softer with time — as though the ink had been pressed down by memory itself. Ellie ran her thumb along the edge of the next page before gently flipping it over. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 6 of Autumn She sat at the edge of the hearth before I even realized the door had opened. Her feet were blistered. Her hands still clenched around a knife that hadn’t been sharpened in years. But her eyes… Her eyes were wide open. She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just stared into the flames like they were the only thing keeping her heart from freezing. I didn’t ask questions. I poured water. I left bread. I waited. That night, Ellie came down with a blanket and wrapped it around the girl’s shoulders. The girl flinched — then froze — then leaned into the warmth like a falling leaf into a river. Her name, we learned later, was Fira. She never told us much about where she came from. But she didn’t need to. It was in the way she moved — like every step had once been taken beside someone she’d lost. She didn’t laugh often. But when she did — it was soft. Like the sound of embers cracking, not roaring. She was quiet, but never distant. Kind, but guarded. And I noticed something strange about her: She never looked away from the fire. Even when others laughed. Even when storms howled. Even when she was alone. As if she was waiting for it to disappear again. Like it had once, in her past. There was one evening I returned from town and found her in the kitchen, holding one of the older journals I’d misplaced. She didn’t open it. Just held it — like she wanted to understand something. When she noticed me, she quickly put it back. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she said, voice almost a whisper. “You’re not,” I answered. “That one’s empty, anyway.” But I lied. Because I knew she was searching for something. Maybe not answers. But a place to anchor the questions. — The other girls liked her. Trusted her. Even Ellie — who rarely leaned on anyone — began to check in on her quietly. Not with words, but by sitting beside her at night. Letting silence say what neither of them could. That’s when I started to see it clearly. This place — it wasn’t built for the lost. It was built for those who survived being lost. Fira didn’t ask to be strong. But she became it anyway. Just like Ellie. Just like the others. — The Innkeeper --- Ellie paused, her eyes tracing the final line like it was a reflection in a mirror. She remembered that night — the way Fira had sat by the fire, unmoving for hours. And the look in her eyes… It had reminded Ellie of herself. Of the girl she used to be. She gently touched the edge of the page and whispered: “…You never looked away, did you?” Then she turned the next page.
— As read by Ellie Fira hadn’t looked away from the fire that night. Not even once. And Ellie hadn’t forgotten. Even now, the memory of her — curled in front of the hearth, blade still clutched, eyes hollow but fixed — tugged quietly at the back of Ellie’s mind. It was the same feeling that pulled her back here. Back to the hatch beneath the kitchen. She hadn’t meant to return. Not so soon. But some pages don’t let go after you read them. The floor creaked under her careful step, the same hollow knock where the old spice rack cast its sleepy shadow. The trapdoor was right where she remembered. Waiting. She paused. Then opened it. A cool breath of air drifted upward. Still. Familiar. She descended with her lantern — freshly lit, yet flickering more than before. The journal remained where she’d left it, resting on the stone table like it had always belonged there. Like it had waited for her to come back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, fingertips brushing the edge of the leather-bound cover. “I wasn’t ready before. But now… maybe I need to be.” She opened it again. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 10 of Autumn Fira found one of my older journals. Not this one — the first. The one I wrote before there were beds in the rooms. Before the roof stopped leaking. Before the fire ever stayed lit. I hadn’t hidden it well. Just tucked under a warped board behind the kitchen. I assumed no one would look there. But Fira did. Not because she was curious. But because she noticed. She read a little, though she never said what she saw. She only looked at me and said, “If this means something to you… it shouldn’t be left upstairs.” She didn’t judge. She didn’t pry. She simply understood. That night, I didn’t sleep. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 13 of Autumn I started clearing out the old basement. It wasn’t much — broken crates, rusty nails, moldy sacks of grain from seasons ago. But it was dry. Still. And safe. I moved the journals. All of them. Even the one I wrote during the fighting — the one I once swore I’d never open again. Then I built the hatch. Tucked beneath the floor, just behind the spice rack no one touches. Not to bury my shame. But to place it where it wouldn’t be mistaken for something it wasn’t. Not a confession. A record. A piece of the truth, waiting for the right person to read it. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 14 of Autumn Fira hasn’t mentioned it again. But something changed. In the way she walks through the halls. In the way she watches me when she thinks I’m not looking. I think she saw something in that journal she wasn’t supposed to see. Not a secret. Not a mistake. A man. Just a man, trying to keep something warm — even after so much has gone cold. And she didn’t look at me like I was broken. She looked at me like she understood what it means to carry things in silence. This place… This inn wasn’t made for guests. It was made for survivors. For the ones who can’t sleep unless there’s a light on in the hallway. For the ones who know how heavy it is to keep going anyway. If anyone ever finds this room, long after I’m gone… Let it be someone who listens with both hands. Someone who knows what it’s like to lose things no one else saw. Let it be someone like Ellie. --- Ellie held still, her eyes lingering on the last few lines. Her name. Written long before she ever knew there was a basement. Before Fira arrived. Before any of them knew how much they’d need each other. This wasn’t just about hidden journals anymore. Or buried memories. It was about why the inn had kept going. Because someone like her had stayed. Because someone like Fira had noticed. Because even silence needed a place to rest. She didn’t close the book this time. She just sat there. And read on.
— As read by Ellie The warmth had always been there. Even when it was quiet. Even when no one spoke. Even when the world outside the windows howled with wind or monsters or memories. The fire never went out. Until one night… it did. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 20 of Autumn I left before sunrise. Just for the morning. There was no reason to think it would matter. The girls were still asleep. The fire was steady. The pantry was stocked, the rain had passed. But when I returned… The hearth was cold. The first time in months. I don’t blame them. It’s not their fault. They had no reason to think I’d be gone so long. But something about that room—empty, dark, silent— It unsettled me. This place was built on warmth. Not walls. And for one evening, it felt… hollow. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 21 of Autumn I caught Ellie downstairs that night. She had relit the fire. Quietly. Carefully. Not just with wood, but with blankets nearby, a warm cup on the mantle, a stool facing inward instead of out. She didn’t say anything when she saw me. Just smiled, almost sheepishly. “I didn’t like how it felt,” she said. And I nodded. Because neither did I. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 22 of Autumn Fira’s been quieter. Not withdrawn—but watchful. She sits near the fire more often again, like she used to. Not staring the way she did when she first arrived. But guarding it. As if she understands now that the warmth is fragile. That it needs tending. That someone, somewhere, has to stay awake. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 23 of Autumn I’ve been thinking more about what happens after. After they grow strong enough to leave. After the laughter fades. After the final ember is out. I won’t stop them. I can’t. But I wonder… Will the fire still be here, waiting, if someone ever comes back? --- Ellie paused, lantern flickering beside her. The words had weight tonight. Not because they were heavier than before — but because she could feel them settling into her chest like something she’d always known but never spoken. The fire had gone out once. Only once. But she remembered how it felt. And she remembered why she’d stayed. To make sure it didn’t happen again.
— As read by Ellie Ellie sat longer than usual before turning the page. Something about that last entry stayed with her. The idea that someone out there had seen the same thing he did—and walked away, trusting it would grow. She took a slow breath. Then turned to the next chapter. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 27 of Autumn The girls have started calling it “the quiet room.” It’s the one at the end of the hallway upstairs—door always closed, sheets always fresh. No one’s ever assigned to it. No one asks to stay there. But someone always ends up in it. When they’re too shaken to sleep near others. When they’ve just arrived. When silence is the only medicine that might work. It was never planned. But somehow, it’s always waiting. Like the room itself understands what kind of person needs it. Ellie was the first. I didn’t put her there. She wandered up on her own and shut the door. Didn’t speak to anyone for days. Then, one morning, she came downstairs and made tea for everyone. No explanation. No fanfare. Just… something healed. Fira, too, stayed there once. She’d just woken from a nightmare. Didn’t want to explain. I found her the next morning, curled beneath the window, watching the fog lift. They don’t talk about the room. But they respect it. As if naming it would ruin what it is. --- > Entry — Year 1, Day 29 of Autumn I sat in the quiet room today. No reason. No task. Just sat. The window was cracked. The wind made the curtains breathe like something alive. I realized something. The room is not just for the broken. It’s for the ones who are trying to hold something in. To keep from cracking when no one’s watching. I think that’s why it was there before any of us really noticed. This place isn’t made of stone. It’s made of rooms like this. Doors that open when no one knocks. And sometimes, the best kindness is simply… Letting someone close the door behind them. --- Ellie shut the journal softly. Her eyes lingered on the hallway just beyond the kitchen. She remembered the first time she found herself in that quiet room. The stillness. The ache. And then the warmth, not loud like laughter—but gentle, steady, like a hand on her shoulder even when no one was there. That room had no name. But now she understood why. Because it didn’t belong to the inn. It belonged to the ones who needed it. And that was enough.
As read by Ellie The entry was smudged, like a few drops of water had once kissed the page. Ellie turned it gently, heart already leaning forward. --- 📖 Entry — Year 1, Day 20 of Autumn She didn’t ask permission to enter. Didn’t even knock. I was fixing one of the rafters in the back hall when the door creaked open—no ceremony, no hesitation. Just the wind brushing in behind a woman with a half-torn cloak, boots muddy from travel, and eyes that looked like they’d walked through fire and still dared to laugh. She was shorter than I expected. Hair tied back loosely. Sword strapped across her back. The kind of presence that makes a room fall still, not because of fear, but because even the walls knew she didn’t wait for invitations. I asked, “What are you doing here?” She glanced around, shrugged, and said, “You looked like someone who could use a guest.” I hadn’t even opened the inn yet. No sign on the post. No fire in the hearth. Just sawdust and silence. Still, she walked in like it was hers. Or maybe like it was a place she'd always been looking for. She took off her cloak, sat at one of the unfinished tables, and pulled out an apple from her satchel. “You’re the one who used to fight under the Red Crest, right?” she asked between bites. I didn’t answer. She smirked. “You’re not very good at hiding, you know.” --- 📖 Entry — Year 1, Day 21 of Autumn She stayed the night. Didn’t ask. Just curled up near the fireplace and mumbled something about her back hurting from sleeping under trees. I let her stay. Not because I trusted her. But because the way she looked at this place reminded me of something I couldn’t quite name. When I brought her a blanket, she didn’t thank me. Just scooted aside and made space on the floor. As if to say: "You don't have to carry your silence alone." She didn’t tell me her name. Only that she was known as “The Fox of the East.” Adventurers speak of her like a ghost. Some say she can outdrink a dwarf and outrun a wyvern. Others say she’s already dead and walking on borrowed time. She stayed for three days. Never asked what I was building. Never asked about my past. But every night, she’d tell me a story—ridiculous, funny, or half-true. About a bird that stole her ring. A wyvern who mistook her for a rock. A princess she once rescued, only to get slapped for “being late.” I laughed more in those days than I had in years. --- 📖 Entry — Year 1, Day 24 of Autumn On the morning she left, she stood at the door, hand on the hilt of her sword, eyes scanning the road. “You’ll need help when this place is ready,” she said. “There’s more lost kids out there than you think.” Then, softer: “If I ever find one… I’ll bring her here.” She left before I could reply. But somehow, I knew she meant it. --- Ellie placed a hand over her chest. That was her—the adventurer Amehana always spoke of. The one who found her after the tragedy. The one who led her to the inn like a guardian spirit. This chapter… was the beginning of all of it. The reason the door was left open in the first place.
As read by Ellie 📜 Prologue — As Ellie Turns the Page The ink has faded slightly now. This page feels older—pressed with care, like a memory too painful to let wrinkle. My fingers linger on the edge before I turn it, feeling the texture of his script soften. This next entry… the lines are different. Slower. Like he stopped many times while writing it. This is the night she arrived. Amehana. The girl who always smiled too gently and spoke like she was apologizing to the wind. 📖 Entry — Year 3, Day 7 of Spring, Nightfall The night had settled in thick, like soot over the stone. I was about to blow out the last lantern when the door burst open. The adventurer was framed in the doorway, her cloak billowing like smoke. She stepped forward fast, breath ragged from running—but her arms weren’t empty. She wasn’t carrying a wounded fighter or an unconscious child. No. The girl beside her walked on her own. Barefoot. Quiet. Pale as the moon. Her hair—golden like morning light through stained glass—clung to her shoulders in soft waves. Her steps were slow, deliberate. Each one echoing against the wooden floor like she wasn’t sure she belonged here. The adventurer gave me a look. One I’d only seen once before—the day she left someone at my door and didn’t return for weeks. She gently placed a hand on the girl’s back. “She’s safe here, right?” she asked, more like a plea than a question. I didn’t speak. I only stepped aside. 📖 Entry — A short while later We sat around the fire. She didn’t speak, not even when Fira offered her a blanket or when the other girls whispered nearby, pretending not to watch. She just… looked. At the walls. At the floor. At the light dancing against the hearth. Her eyes weren’t blank. They were quiet—like a storm that had passed but still left the wind behind. When Ellie handed her a small cup of tea, she nodded, clutching it with both hands as if the warmth might tether her. Fira sat close, not speaking either. And I… I couldn’t help but wonder if this silence, the one she carried, was heavier than all the noise I’d ever heard. 📖 Entry — A little after midnight The adventurer didn’t stay long. She looked to me before leaving and whispered: “She didn’t cry. Not once. Not even when I found her walking alone.” Then she was gone—vanishing into the dark like always. The girl stayed. She hasn’t told us her name yet. But she hasn't tried to run. She folded her clothes neatly. Sat where the others sat. Looked out the window with eyes that had already seen too much. There’s something strong in her. Not loud, not fierce—but unshakable. Like a candle that won’t go out, even when the wind howls. Maybe that's why I didn’t ask anything. Maybe I knew... She came here to survive. And the inn—this home we keep building—was already waiting for her.
As read by Ellie --- 📜 Prologue — As Ellie Turns the Page There was something different about this page. No smudges. No rushed lines. Just calm, practiced ink — like he had more time than usual. Or maybe... he just wanted to remember this part clearly. The next words weren’t about building or leaving. They were about staying. About the space between her first steps, and the moment she became part of us. --- 📖 Entry — Year 3, Day 8 of Spring, Morning She woke before I did. I found her standing by the door, barefoot still, tracing the light between the slats with her fingers. She didn’t say anything when she noticed me—just nodded once and turned back to watching the sun try to slip through the cracks. I told her breakfast would be simple. She nodded again. The others watched her with quiet curiosity. Not fear. Not suspicion. Just the kind of silence you give to someone who’s already carrying more than they should. When Ellie asked her name again, she finally spoke. “…Amehana.” Like the sound had been sleeping inside her all this time, waiting for the right moment to wake up. --- 📖 Entry — Year 3, Day 9 of Spring, Dusk She helped Fira carry the laundry in today. Didn’t ask. Just lifted the basket and followed. Later, she swept the floor without being told. Stirred the soup. Put her hands in the soil when Ellie started tending to the herb pots out back. She still barely speaks. But somehow, the rooms feel fuller. --- 📖 Entry — Year 3, Day 11 of Spring, Rainy Afternoon The storm made the roof creak. Amehana sat by the window, watching the droplets trail like tears against the glass. Ellie sat beside her, arms wrapped around her knees. Neither said anything. But after a long while, I heard Amehana whisper, almost too soft to catch: “Rain doesn’t scare me.” Then she turned to Ellie and added, “It means I’m somewhere safe.” That was the first time she smiled without apology. --- 📖 Entry — Year 3, Day 13 of Spring, Night The others have started calling her one of us. She still sleeps closest to the fire, though. Fira gave her a ribbon today. Sky blue. Said it would match her hair if she ever braided it. She didn’t say anything… but she wore it all evening. Amehana doesn’t try to belong. She just does. Not with words, but with every quiet step, every task she finishes without praise, every soft look she gives the walls like she’s trying to remember they won’t crumble on her. And in those silences—between the footsteps and the tea and the folding of sheets— She’s learning how to breathe again.
(As read by Ellie) --- The tavern was busier that night than usual. Travelers with polished armor and gold-lined voices filled the seats, laughing like they owned the walls. The girls did their best— Ellie with her quiet strength, Fira with her watchful calm, and Amehana… always gentle, always trying to hide how much she felt. It started with a hand on a tray, then words just a shade too familiar. I saw Ellie stop. Her eyes locked onto the man’s wrist before he even finished his sentence. She didn’t speak— but her glare said everything. Fira was next. She turned, swift as wind, and slapped a hand away just as it reached for Amehana. But one still got through. His fingers brushed her hip. She froze. Silent. Like she’d learned to be when hurt. I stood. Not in anger— but in something colder. > “This is not that kind of place.” My voice didn’t need to rise. It landed like stone. > “Leave.” And they did. But their laughter echoed even after the door shut. Later, I watched the three of them sitting by the kitchen stairs. Ellie cleaning the same cup twice. Fira quietly braiding Amehana’s hair— hair pale like the first frost of morning, nearly white when caught by the firelight. They sat together longer than usual. I thought I’d write about it. I thought maybe— … ---
And the page ends there. No date. No signature. No conclusion. Just empty parchment, after a sentence that never finished. Just stillness. Like the fire had burned out Just a sentence that broke off mid-thought, as if the pen had been dropped— or the writer was pulled away. I stared at it for a long time, hoping maybe the words would appear. That maybe… he’d come back and finish it. But I know better now. --- I almost closed the book. Almost left it like that. But something nudged me—maybe instinct, or just the weight of everything he’d hidden. So I checked beneath the binding. Slipped my fingers between the seams. And there they were. Tucked beneath the last stitched page. Loose entries. Folded. Unlabeled. Worn edges. Ink faint but still breathing. The kind of pages you don’t mean to lose— but maybe you’re too afraid to leave out in the open. As I read, I felt his presence again. The careful way he wrote about us. Not like we were broken. Not like we were burdens. But like we were… the reason he kept going. Like we were home. --- And when I finished those final, hidden entries… I returned to the page where he left off. Still blank. Still waiting. And I realized something. He left it like this… because he had to. Because maybe… he knew someone would find it. Me. I remember every detail of those nights— the footsteps down the stairs, the firelight on his cloak, the way he always poured tea before speaking. I remember how he always said, > “This place will outlive me. Let it tell their stories.” Now I finally understand what he meant. These weren’t just guests. They were his reasons. Fira. Amehana. Me. The others who laughed, cried, worked, rested. We were the quiet light that filled this place. And if no one tells this story… then it’ll fade like a candle left too long in the rain. So I’m going to preserve it. All of it. Even the parts that hurt to remember. Even the endings that never came. Because someone has to. — Ellie
(Dated: Year 5, Day 3 of Winter – the night of the tavern incident) I’m writing this before I forget the sound of Amehana’s silence. Not the absence of her voice— But the way it froze the air after that man’s hand brushed her. I should’ve stopped it before it happened. I saw the signs. I saw her shrink into herself, like she used to in the first week she came here. And still, I didn’t move fast enough. Ellie was faster. Fira was sharper. And me? I stood too still. Not out of fear— But because I remembered too much. Because once, I didn’t stop something like this. Not in time. Not for someone I cared about. Tonight almost became a mirror of a past I buried. I said the words. I forced them out: > “This is not that kind of place.” But words mean little when someone already flinched. Later, I watched the three of them huddled together like the last embers of a fire. And I realized— It wasn’t just a near-mistake. It was a warning. If I ever lose my purpose… If I ever become just a man running an inn, instead of the reason it stays safe— Then I don’t deserve to stay here. I have one last thing to prepare. If something happens to me, and they ask where I went… Tell them nothing chased me away. Tell them I left to keep the light from dimming. I hope one of them finds this someday. And understands. — H. --- 📜 Hidden Letter 2: "To the Three Lights of This Inn" (Undated – found sealed in a wax envelope tucked between floorboards) To Ellie, Fira, and Amehana— I never had the courage to say this when we all still breathed the same air and watched the same firelight. So I’m writing it here, where I can be honest without interruption. You three were never just helpers. You weren’t burdens. You weren’t guests. You were the heart of this place. Ellie — You were the first. The one who saw this place before the name, before the stories. You gave it rhythm, warmth, patience. You made it real. Fira — You saw everything, even the things we didn’t say. You carried others’ weight so quietly, I sometimes forgot how heavy it was. You were my calm, my mirror when I needed to see myself clearly. Amehana — You reminded me of the reason I started this place. Not because you were fragile— But because you still believed in light after all the world had done to you. You each saved this inn more times than I did. And if one day, I am no longer here… Let it be known: I left because I trusted you. To keep it standing. To make it more than just wood and stone. To let it become yours. Thank you. With all that I never said aloud, — Your Innkeeper
She didn’t notice her tears until one of them struck the parchment. The ink bled slightly—like it, too, had something more it wanted to say. Ellie gripped the letter tighter, pressing it to her chest as her knees gave way. The cold stone floor didn’t matter. The dust didn’t matter. Nothing did—not anymore. > “Why didn’t you just say it?” Her voice cracked like a candle wick catching flame. “We would’ve stayed. We would’ve fought for you…” But he was gone. And now the words he never spoke were the ones echoing the loudest. Fira wasn’t here. Amehana wasn’t either. Only Ellie remained—shoulders trembling in the silence, clutching a letter written in past tense, too late for anyone to answer. She wept. Not loudly. Just… completely. The kind of weeping that doesn’t need sobs—just breath stolen from the chest and the weight of love that wasn’t finished. Then— Her hand brushed something behind the stone lantern. A small, smooth tile. Loose. With shaking fingers, she pried it from the wall. Beneath it sat a small leather pouch. Dusty. Dry. Still sealed. She opened it slowly. Inside: a folded paper, no name, no wax— Only a single symbol drawn in ink. A lantern. But the flame inside it wasn’t drawn. It was carved. Pressed into the paper deep enough to leave a shadow. She unfolded it. And inside were just five words—written in his handwriting, but smaller… quieter. --- 🕯️ Hidden Message > “I’ll return if the light remains.” --- Ellie stared at it. And for the first time in years— She laughed. A broken laugh, full of grief, of love, of impossible hope. She folded the letter back, held it tight to her chest, and whispered: > “Then I’ll keep it lit.” And from somewhere deep in the earth, or maybe just her own heart— She swore she felt warmth again.
Ellie stood at the edge of the hidden space, the pouch now tucked into her sleeve, the letters pressed close to her chest like a heartbeat she couldn’t quiet. She glanced back one last time at the basement—the cold stone, the wooden shelves lined with dust, the faint memory of voices that once filled it. She hadn’t noticed how dim the lantern had grown until now. She gently set it down near the door, its flame trembling, flickering like it knew. Then she locked it. She slid the board back over the entrance, placed the rug just slightly off-center—just the way it had always been. Like nothing had changed. But everything had. Her hands trembled as they pressed flat against the floorboards. She stayed there a moment longer, palms to wood, as if hoping the warmth of the past could seep through. And then, quietly, she whispered: > “I’ll wait, just like you asked…” She rose slowly. Her face was dry—until it wasn’t. She didn’t notice the first tear. Nor the second. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, her vision was swimming. She pushed the kitchen door open, the silence of the inn wrapping around her like a heavy cloak. No one was there to see her fall apart. No one was left to catch her. She made it up the stairs, one step at a time, breathing in shallow pieces. Her hand grazed the old railing that Fira once leaned on. Her foot touched the step that used to creak, the one Amehana always skipped. The hallway was still. The bedroom door creaked open. Three beds. Three blankets. One girl. Ellie walked inside and sat down slowly—on the same edge she had so many times before. The tears wouldn’t stop. Even now. Even as she curled into the blanket that still smelled faintly of lavender. Even as the moonlight bled gently through the dusty windows and painted the room in silver memory. Even as her hand clutched the lantern-carved letter close, holding onto the only ember that still remained. > “I’ll keep it lit,” she whispered again. And the wind outside, soft against the wooden walls, sounded almost like a voice answering.