She grunted, needles moving again with practiced efficiency, the clicking sound rhythmic and soothing. "I can tell my regular I'm hosting a soldier boy. They'll understand. People always make room for soldiers around here." She paused, glancing up again, eyes narrowing slightly. "You sure you only want a week?"
I thought about it. Three weeks of leave. Three weeks of nothing stretching ahead of me, empty and waiting andthreatening to swallow me whole—or three weeks in Charleston with Sophie. With a friend. With someone who remembered who I used to be before I forgot.
"Three weeks," I said. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble."
She laughed—a full, rich sound that filled the room and made the space feel warmer, more alive, like laughter had that power. "As long as you don't mind real Charleston cooking and can help carry in the groceries, I'll give you a deal. Save me having to keep that vacancy light lit. Electricity's expensive these days."
"Deal," I said, already planning to pay her full price because something told me she needed it more than she'd admit and I had money I didn't know what to do with, anyway.
"Good." She picked up her needles again, wool sliding through her fingers like water. "I already know my name. What's yours?"
"Wyatt Dane." I stepped forward, offering my hand.
She looked at it for a moment, considering, then set her needles down and took it—her grip surprisingly strong, calloused from years of work I could only guess at. "Dane, you say?"
"Yes, ma'am. From Valentine, Texas."
She studied me for a long moment, head tilted slightly, like she was trying to place something. Her eyes narrowed, thoughtful, searching my face for ... what? Recognition? Resemblance? Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe, or confirmation—then she seemed to shake it off and went back to her needlework.
"Leftover bread pudding in the fridge," she said. "Still warm. Room key's in the top drawer in the kitchen. Second door on the left down the hall."
I nodded, turning toward what I assumed was the kitchen, when she spoke again.
"You got Venmo?"
I paused, turning back. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good. We'll settle up tomorrow." She didn't look up this time, needles clicking softly. "I've got an eye for misfits. Been doing this long enough to spot them. You don't seem like a misfit. Am I wrong?"
I grinned. "Not the bad kind. But I'm still a soldier. We're all a little broken."
She laughed again, the sound even richer this time, full of something that might have been understanding. "I've got war stories that just might rival yours, young man. Remind me to tell you about Khe Sanh sometime. Three nurses and two bottles of hooch!" Then she shooed me away with one hand, still not looking up. "Go on. Plenty of hot water. There's a laundry service I can call when you need it. Just leave your dirties in the basket outside your door."
I headed toward the kitchen, then stopped at the doorway, hand on the frame. "You want me to lock the front door, ma'am?"
She looked up slowly, eyes twinkling with something that might have been amusement or might have been a test she wanted to see if I'd pass. "If it'll make you feel better, sure."
It was definitely a test. I could feel it in the weight of her gaze, the slight curve of her mouth, the way she waited for my answer like it mattered more than it should.
"I'll leave it unlocked," I said. "For the adventure of it."
She chuckled, nodding approval like I'd passed something important, something she'd been measuring. "Goodnight, Wyatt Dane. Breakfast's on the table at eight sharp. Don't be late. I don't hold food."
"Yes, ma'am. Wouldn't dream of it."
I found the bread pudding in the fridge—still warm, somehow, like it had been waiting specifically for me—and scooped a generous helping into a ceramic bowl I found in thecabinet. Found the key in the top drawer while the microwave hummed, counted down sixty seconds in green digital numbers that glowed in the dim kitchen. When it beeped, I grabbed the bowl—steam rising, carrying the scent of cinnamon and vanilla and something I couldn't name but recognized as home—and headed down the narrow hallway toward the only room with a brass number on it.
As I turned the corner, Mama P's voice drifted after me, softer now but no less certain, weighted with something that felt like prophecy.
"Welcome to Charleston, Wyatt Dane." A pause, needles clicking in rhythm. "This city's got a way of showing you what you need. Pay attention."
I stopped, glancing back toward the front room, but she was already focused on her needlework again, silhouetted against the window, the vacancy sign casting strange shadows across the wall behind her like something out of a painting.
For the first time in a long time—maybe years, maybe longer—I felt myself relax. Really relax. The tension in my shoulders easing, the weight in my chest lightening just enough to breathe deeper, to remember what it felt like to exist without armor.
The room was small. Cozy. A queen bed with a faded quilt in blues and greens, hand-stitched with care by someone who understood that beauty lived in details. A nightstand with a lamp and a water-stained paperback someone had left behind—Steinbeck, looked like. A window overlooking the street, curtains drawn but light filtering through from the streetlamp outside, casting everything in soft amber. Nothing fancy. Nothing trying to impress.
Perfect.
