The sound of a scrawling pen cut through the sleepy silence of the eatery — scratching, scaring, and scoring its mark onto the pages of a very old and archaic notebook. It was too early in the to be this dedicated to such a traditional craft, and yet this author was more awake, more active, than the many other souls who happened to drag their zombie expressions through the front door.
It wasn't until a ceramic mug was placed beside the gentleman that his obsessive actions came to an abrupt halt. The aroma of coffee filling his nostrils and the sight out of the corner of his eye of hot steam dancing above the rim, they were enough to break him out of his trance. He was on the verge of offering a token of thanks when it was apparent how this one particular individual was attempting to read over his shoulder.
“I would prefer if you were not to read what was not addressed to you,” cold and calculating in his words. Mathias brushed his left hand over the notebook, shielding its secrets. A faint sight of leathered fingers entered, littered in stains blood and dirt — to whose it was, only he would know.
Perhaps his words were not firm enough as the doctor felt unsatisfied with his level of solitude. There was a still feeling of someone spying over his shoulder, a feeling that lingered on beyond what he believed was welcoming.
“If there is nothing else...” he turned his face to eye the worker, sporting a subtle tone of aggression in his voice — but he was met with empty still air.
* * * * *
Outside however a coach had pulled into Briar Hill, a stopover on the journey to another city. Its steel chassis rolling up to the curb opposite the Briar Hill Inn, advertisement splashed across the side with the words of Eastern American Adventures. Within its shell a voice from inside called out to its snap-happy passengers, murmurings of something along the lines of how little time they would be spending here — but there was one passenger who wasn't interested, instead choosing to separate herself from the camera loving pack.
She left the proximity of the group, crossing the lonely street blanketed in fog to enter the inn — her footsteps padding on the ground in determined fearlessness. A single chime as the door swung open, a reverberation of déjà vu as the same door return shut, and she leaned onto the counter, waiting for someone to tend to her needs.
The young woman leaned over the counter to peer into the hallway abyss, curious to what signs of life she may uncover. From the trail of dust and dirt lining the timber oak surfaces, she began to wonder how many workers actually approached the front counter when the door chime beckoned. In her look of confusion she reeled herself back into an upright position and surveyed the adjoining rooms, her eyes crossing with a dark set of round glasses who had been observing her the moment she entered.
It was a passing gaze that lasted a fraction of a second as the glasses. Turned to face the outside, milky world. Satisfied with the reality that perhaps she would not get the service she hoped for she muttered a line under her own breath.
“Veni venias ad me satis,” a whispering tune.
With great haste a key from the pegboard far behind the counter soared through the air and landed in her open palm, a monetary exchange of crumpled paper laid on the table for whoever may eventually return. She would plan to return later and inform Reservation properly about her stay, but for now a note signed with her name would have to suffice.
Room 5, Sienna Kinley