Eva served us from a cast-iron skillet. The food was exquisite—poached eggs over smoked trout, black bread with honey, a tea that tasted like thunderstorms. But as we ate, the tags began to appear.
I arrived on a rain-slicked Tuesday in November, a month the tourists avoided. My name is Leo, and I was running from the ghost of a failed marriage and a marketing job that had slowly pickled my soul. The B&B was a last-minute booking, the cheapest one within a hundred miles of the coast.
“It was the only room left,” I mumbled, rain dripping from my hood.
“Will I remember?” I asked.