Suite 702

Neil Westley stared at the chipped paint of the room's door with half-hearted dread. Suite 702 screamed its age in dulcet tones best left to creaky floors, not motel rooms. Business trips rarely bore surprises, but something about this desolate place suggested otherwise. Two hours ago, he'd watched his flight circle the New York skyline through fogged glass, waiting for the wheels to touch down. Yet here he was, digging for his room key while contemplating the authentically worn carpet that enveloped his ankles like quicksand. The room was sparse with modest charm perfect for an indie film. A 1970s floral couch sagged by the window, where raindrops pockmarked the view. The desk sported a rotary telephone, adding kitsch authenticity to the place. As Neil tossed his suitcase next to the bed, he marveled at the spiraling carpet stains, souvenirs of untold stories. He didn't notice the knock on the door until it was an ominous tap-tap-tap in his thoughts. Wrestling the rickety handle, he revealed the source—a petite woman wrapped in a garish shawl. "Evenin'," she chirped, voice a bubbling stream of curiosity. "Evening," Neil replied cautiously. "I'm Mary, the manager. Just checking how you're settling in." Her eyes twinkled—a hint that she'd heard every tale the hotel cemented into its bones. "I'm, uh, settled." He chuckled awkwardly, unsure if he amused her or not. Mary clasped her hands, her nails painted a daring cerulean blue. "Folks don't usually visit this part of Pennsylvanian nitty-gritty unless they're looking for something they didn't know they were missin'." "Well, I was hoping for a hot shower and mindless TV," Neil admitted, meeting her gaze with a rolling smile. Mary laughed warmly. "Honey, you might find more than reruns while you're here. Mind if I join you for a cup of tea later? I owe a riveting ghost story and, trust me—Sarah, three doors down, said mine is a kicker." So, they convened in the lobby when twilight kissed the grimy windows, turning them into shadowed looking glasses. Mary waved at a passing guest then gestured proudly to a slightly-concealed kettle, and two worn mugs. Neil did his best to avoid choking when the aromatic blend hit his senses. "Oh, gross—is that licorice?" "Proper tea makes itself heard," she cackled, pouring. Nothing fancy about the embrace Mary fashioned with easy chats and genuine intrigue. Neil forgot his earlier hesitance, caught off-guard by life's small authenticity. It soon became clear—List hotel employees ranked higher on wise souls than even the slickest executives. Mary's tales weren't particularly spooky nor her earlier boast edited perfectly; but rather, they meandered through winding lanes of life, loss, and laughter. She spoke of Charlie, her late husband, their undisclosed dreams, and how the hotel anchors her now. Neil shared his work woes and the 'expectation from nothingness' bone he gnawed daily. Time gushed in authentic iterations neither calculated, just honest. The night felt less alone. "You ever laugh so hard you forget why you were grumbling?" Mary asked, setting the mugs aside. "Sometimes," Neil said, smiling. "Not enough, though. But maybe more from now on." Before she bid him goodnight, Mary lent a parting mantra. "Memories make us rich, Neil. Pack 'em up whenever you can." A small lifetime wrapped in the hotel was sorry to see Neil leave that brisk morning; but he, the traveler, now knew seasons of all sorts and how even dead-end layovers hold echoes of insight. Neil told Mary's tale to colleagues who never expected their uniformed lives to soften at the seams. It's funny, Neil figured—the ordinary taxi rides, jarring flights, and short-lived suites—could become hidden chapters hemmed together for the writer in life's draft.