Three days since Willers left.
The inn is the same. The same customers, the same orders, the same creaking floorboard by the third table that I keep meaning to mention to the owner. The same rhythm I've known since I started working here.
But something is different.
It's not that I miss him — though I do. It's that the space he left behind feels larger than it should. He was not a loud presence. He did not fill rooms with noise or demand attention. But he was there. And now he is not.
I find myself listening for his footsteps.
I find myself setting down two cups without thinking, then picking one back up.
I find myself standing at the window in the evening, looking south toward the road he took, even though I know he's long past the horizon.
The innkeeper asks if I'm all right.
I say yes.
It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth.
I don't know how to explain that the silence has changed. That the quiet of Southshore used to feel peaceful, and now it feels like waiting.
I go to bed early.
I dream of shadows.