Page 7 of Cinder
Which is… definitely not now.
The vague smell of smoke hits me a second later, lingering in the air as I cross the intersection. I glance down the side street where the buildings thin out, opening up into what looks like a park. A frozen lake spreads out like glass, with dark, charred patches breaking through the white around the edges. Bonfire remains, probably.
I’m not surprised. A small town like this at the start of a fresh year with a pretty lake—I’d bet money they’d celebrated with mulled wine, fireworks, and probably butter tarts. I’m kinda sad I missed it.
My gaze drifts back toward the town buildings, landing briefly on the clock tower rising above them. It’s not huge, but it stands out, the face of it visible from the street. The minute hand creeps forward if I watch closely enough. A constant reminder that time’s moving, even if it feels like it isn’t.
I keep walking.
A woman steps out in front of me, from another café called Flora’s,balancing a tray of coffees that immediately starts to wobble.
“Oh—nope—no—”
I move before she finishes the sentence, grabbing the tray before it tips.
“Here,” I say, steadying it with a soft smile. “I got it.”
She laughs a little breathlessly as she wrestles her keys out of her coat pocket. “Thank you. I absolutely did not have that under control.”
“Convincing performance, though,” I tell her, holding it level while she unlocks her car.
“I try.” She shoots me a quick smile before pausing on me properly, tilting her head. “You’re new.”
I hesitate for a fraction before nodding. “Is it that obvious?”
“Small town,” she says with a shrug. “We notice.”
“Good to know,” I murmur, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ll work on my blending-in skills.”
“You’ll get there.” She grins, taking the coffees back once the door’s open. “You heading somewhere specific?”
“Currently wandering with intent,” I admit. “Trying to find somewhere I can stay for a bit.”
Her brows draw together momentarily before she purses her lips thoughtfully.
“There’s a motel a couple blocks that way.” She points down a side street in the next block. “Nothing fancy, but it’s clean.”
“That’s exactly what I’m after,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Tell ’em Remi sent you.” She slides into the car, then pauses. “And welcome to Maplewood. Hope you enjoy your time here.”
I step back with a smile, raising a hand in thanks as I watch her drive off, then I turn in the direction she pointed.
“I hope I enjoy my time here too,” I echo under my breath.
The street Remi pointed me down is quieter than the main stretch, but not empty. A couple of cars are parked along the curb, and halfway down, there’s a low building with a faded sign out front
that reads ‘Maplewood Motel’ in peeling blue lettering.
I slow a little.
“Well,” I murmur. “At least it’s self-aware.”
It’s not bad, exactly. Probably the kind of place that’s seen a lot of people come and go, and gave up trying to impress anyone about ten years ago.
And honestly, I respect that. After years of feeling like my entire existence was about managing impressions and being agreeable enough to avoid harsh whispers behind my back, this kind of authenticity feels oddly refreshing.
I push open the reception door and venture inside. There’s a counter at the front with a laminated surface that’s seen better days, a rack of brochures no one’s touched in a while, and a heater humming quietly in the corner.
