The Willow Creek Inn was a cozy two-story building nestled in the quiet heart of St. Stephen.
Its weathered stone walls and lace-curtained windows gave it a warm, old-fashioned appeal. Though modest in size, it had the kind of timeless character that made passersby slow down and smile—like something out of a gentler era.
The front desk was manned by a single elderly clerk, and the chandelier in the lobby swayed whenever the wind rushed through the windows.
Richard stood in the modest suite he had just checked into, dropping his travel bag on the only available chair.
He exhaled slowly as he surveyed the room. He didn't know whether to smile or be disappointed at the non-existent minibar.
It wasn't ideal—but it was the best the village could offer—so he was told.
His wristwatch read half-past seven as he tried to see why his stomach hadn't stopped growling.
