Somewhere on the ragged edge of Silverline City, where the highway thinned into a two-lane memory and neon signs gave up and went to sleep, a tired motel blinked its tired lights. The kind of place that smelled of old coffee and cleaner, where every wallpaper seam told a story and the sheets remembered more faces than any guest would admit.
A man in a black jacket pushed open the glass to the reception cabin. The bell gave a soft, polite ring that sounded too cheerful for the hour. Behind the counter a young receptionist looked up with a practiced smile that had learned to hide surprise.
"How can I help you, sir" she asked, hands already reaching for the logbook.
He moved like someone who carried winter in his bones. "I need a room," he said. His voice was low and even. Nothing in it invited small talk.
