The Ash-Watching Lantern

The inn stands collapsed on one side: blackened beams jut from the roof like broken ribs, the south wall a mosaic of soot and pale plaster. Each night a low, rhythmic thunder rolls from the same cloud that hovers directly above the inn, and rain begins in a thin, relentless sheet even if the road beyond is clear. Inside the surviving common room the air smells of wet wood and old stew; a single battered lantern casts long trembling shadows that make the burned rafters look like fingers. The few patrons who shelter here speak in hushed, distracted tones — some watch the doorway as if the storm might take them by name — while a cat with a singed ear curls on a bench and purrs like a tiny bell.