The UnLucky Transit
795 Words
The flight cancellation wasn't a surprise, but the finality of it felt like a physical blow. The gate agent’s voice was soft and almost mournful as she handed out discount hotel vouchers that everyone knew were for places no one actually wanted to stay.
Elara didn’t join the frantic crowd at the service desk. She knew that line was for people who still believed they could bargain with the universe. Instead, she stood near the exit and gripped the jagged metal stump of her suitcase handle.
“You look like you’ve been through a war, honey.”
Elara turned. A woman in a thick, mustard yellow parka was leaning against a pillar, calmly eating a bag of pretzels.
“Just a casualty of December,” Elara managed. Her voice was raspy. She gestured to the list of voucher hotels. “Do you know if any of these are actually habitable? Or is there somewhere else nearby? Maybe a B&B?”
The woman chewed thoughtfully. “Avoid the Airport Inn unless you like the smell of damp carpet and despair. If you can get a cab, which is a big if, try The Silver Pine. It’s a little B&B about three miles out. It’s run by a woman who’s too old to care about corporate policies but too stubborn to let a room go dirty.”
“The Silver Pine,” Elara repeated. The name sounded like a sanctuary. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” the woman said, offering a pretzel. “The snow’s supposed to dump another six inches by midnight. Getting there is the trick.”
Getting there was the trick.
Outside, the air didn’t just bite. It chewed. The shuttle buses were packed and smelled of wet wool and collective resentment. Elara squeezed into a corner with her wheel-less suitcase pinned between her knees. A toddler in the seat next to her began a rhythmic, mindless kicking of her shin. Thud. Thud. Thud. Usually, Elara would have offered a polite smile to the mother. Tonight, she just stared out the fogged window at the red blur of taillights.
The Silver Pine turned out to be a Victorian house that had seen better decades. It sat hunched under a heavy blanket of snow with porch lights that flickered in the wind. When Elara finally dragged her bag into the foyer, a bell chimed. It was a lonely, thin sound.
The woman behind the desk, presumably the stubborn one, didn't look up from her crossword. “Last room is on the third floor. No elevator. Checkout is at ten, assuming the world hasn't frozen over by then.”
Elara paid the inflated holiday rate with a trembling hand. Her bank app sent a notification immediately: Low Balance Alert.
The climb to the third floor was a slow motion disaster. With every step, the suitcase felt heavier and the jagged handle dug into her palm. When she finally reached Room 3C, she didn't even turn on the main light. The amber glow of a streetlamp filtered through the frost on the window and illuminated a room that was functional and freezing.
She dropped the suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed. This was the moment she usually cried. She waited for the familiar sting in her eyes or the tightening of her throat.
But it didn't come.
Instead, there was just a cold, hollowed out space where her hope used to be. She checked the weather app. Blizzard Warning. Then she checked the airline status. Next available flight: December 17th.
Two days. She was stuck here for at least two more days.
Her stomach growled, but the thought of going back out into the wind felt like a death sentence. She looked at the nightstand. There was a single, dusty peppermint in a glass dish.
She unwrapped it and the crinkle of the plastic was loud in the silent room. She sucked on the candy and stared at her reflection in the darkened window. She looked like a stranger, someone older and more frayed.
She thought of the cottage waiting for her, three states away. She could almost smell the cedar wood her grandmother used to burn. It was the only place where she didn't feel like an intruder in her own life. But looking at the snow piling up on the windowsill, the cottage felt like a dream she’d had a long time ago.
Elara pulled the thin quilt over her shoulders. She didn't even bother to take off her boots. She wasn't waiting for a miracle anymore. She was just waiting for the next thing to break.
- Writer
