Callen wiped down the bar, though the glass never stayed dusty long. The storm outside howled like it was looking for a way in. It wouldn’t be long now. Bottles shimmered with labels in languages no one had spoken for centuries. The hearth roared to life on its own. A stool near the fire shifted—empty, but not for long. Callen didn’t look up when the door creaked open. He never did. They always came in the same way: confused, soaked, and certain they wouldn’t be staying. He polished a glass with a cloth that never wore thin. “Storm’s wild tonight,” he said softly, more to the room than anyone else. Then he smiled—small, tired, knowing. They’d talk. They always did.
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