That was a lie, of course. There were always vacancies.

Elena pushed through the oak door, which gave with a groan like a tired old dog. Inside, the air smelled of stew, woodsmoke, and the peculiar silence of a place that had heard every story before.

The Keeper smiled—a small, sad, generous thing. “Until you stop being wayward. Or until you realize you never were.”

“How long can I stay?” Elena asked.