NORTHERN REST HOUSE DISTRICT — DAY ONE
The town was called Hollowmere, which should have been a warning.
Not because the name was ominous.
Because places with soft names always seemed to contain the most aggressively repressed people.
Snow sat along the road edges in dirty ridges. The rest house itself had once been a millkeeper's residence—stone foundation, timber upper floor, broad windows, enough room for twelve beds and a kitchen large enough to feed thirty if everyone pretended they weren't using wartime portions.
When we arrived, the front door stood open.
Not broken.
Not attacked.
Just open in the way buildings become open when everyone inside stops believing they're allowed to be there.
A local coordinator met us in the yard.
Her name was Elin. Mid-thirties. Hollow-eyed. Too rigid in the shoulders.
She bowed to Sera, then immediately looked ashamed of doing it.
Good.
At least the town still knew when symbolism was dangerous.
"Tell me everything," Sera said.
