Chapter 29 - R & R

The folder from the travel agency sits tucked under my arm as I walk through the snow-dusted streets. The city feels quieter than usual, like it's already letting go of me. I don't need anything fancy tonight. No suites. No skyline views. No velvet carpets or overpriced minibars. Just a place to sleep. A place to breathe before the next step. A standard hotel sits a few blocks down, a squat brick building with a blue awning and a sign that promises Vacancy in flickering red. The kind of place business travelers use when their flights get delayed. The kind of place families stay when they're visiting relatives. Normal. Predictable. Exactly what I need. I push through the glass doors into a warm lobby that smells faintly of coffee and lemon cleaner. A small Christmas tree sits in the corner even though the holiday's long past, its lights still plugged in out of habit. The front desk clerk looks up, a young guy with a friendly face and a name tag that reads Evan. "Evening," he says. "Looking for a room?" "Yeah," I say. "Just for the night." "Sure thing." He taps at the keyboard. "We've got plenty open. Queen bed, clean linens, continental breakfast in the morning. Nothing fancy, but we keep everything tidy." "That's perfect." He smiles like he's relieved I'm not asking for upgrades or special treatment. "ID and a card?" I hand over the plain debit card I wrote into existence earlier. It scans without issue. Evan hands me a keycard and a small map of the hotel layout. "Elevator's to your left. Breakfast starts at six. If you need anything, extra towels, directions, whatever, just call down." "Thanks." The elevator hums softly as it carries me up. The hallway is quiet, carpeted in a pattern that's trying its best to be cheerful. My room is simple, a queen bed with crisp white sheets, a desk, a TV bolted to the wall, a bathroom that smells like bleach and fresh tile. No champagne chilling in a bucket. No cigar boxes. No velvet robes. Just a room. I drop my jacket on the chair and sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress is firm. The silence is clean. The air feels… neutral. Not heavy with memory. Not charged with expectation. Just a place to rest. I take out my notebook and set it on the nightstand. Tomorrow I'll go back to the travel agency. Set up transportation. Pick a date. Make it real. Tonight, I let myself lie back on the bed, hands folded on my chest, eyes tracing the faint texture of the ceiling. This is the last night I'll spend in this city. The last night with its ghosts. The last night with the version of me who belonged here. I breathe in slow. The sheets smell like detergent and nothing else. The heater hums softly. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes gently. It's not home. But it's enough for now. And tomorrow, I start moving toward something that could be.