The UnLucky Night With Marcus
975 Words
The tea gathering had gone surprisingly well. The lounge still buzzed with the low hum of conversation as Elara poured herself one last cup. Guests lingered in the faded armchairs, sharing stories of snowed-in days and missed trains. For a brief moment, the relentless December curse felt like it was finally losing its grip.
Needing to feel the air, Elara stepped out for a walk. The transformation of the town was startling. Away from the peeling wallpaper and mothball scent of the B&B, the village felt like a scene from a vintage postcard. Wreaths decorated with thick red ribbons hung from every storefront, and the smell of roasted nuts and pine needles drifted through the crisp air.
Families laughed as they pulled children on sleds down the sidewalk. Shop windows glowed with warm gold light, displaying toy trains and hand-knit sweaters. It was cozy and inviting, the kind of world Elara usually only viewed from the outside. For once, she didn't feel like a ghost. She felt like she was part of the scenery.
When she finally returned, her cheeks flushed from the cold and carrying a small bag of peppermint sticks, she nearly collided with Marcus in the narrow hallway.
“Whoa! Easy there,” Marcus said, reaching out to steady her by the elbows. He laughed, a warm, easy sound that seemed to melt the tension in her shoulders. “I thought you’d skipped town on us.”
“Just exploring,” Elara said, stepping back with a small smile. “The town is actually… beautiful. It makes this place look like a haunted house.”
“Tell me about it,” Marcus leaned against the doorframe of the lounge, gesturing for her to join him. “I was just about to go insane staring at my inbox. My phone is basically a paperweight in this building. Want to help me stay sane for an hour?”
“I think I can manage that,” she said.
They settled into the mismatched chairs by the radiator.
“So, Marcus,” she started, tucked her legs under her. “What’s the dream? When you aren’t stranded in a B&B that smells like bleach, what are you doing?”
“I’m an architect,” he said, tilting his head. “I build things that are supposed to last. Which is ironic, considering I can’t even find a flight that stays on the schedule.”
“An architect. That sounds… stable,” Elara mused. “I’m a photographer. I capture things that are already ending. Moments that are gone the second I click the shutter.”
“That’s poetic,” Marcus smiled, and for a second, the way he looked at her was heavy with interest. “And what about the nail tech thing? I saw you looking at your hand earlier like it was a crime scene.”
Elara laughed. “It’s my side hustle. It’s the only thing in my life I can actually control. Ten fingers, ten nails. No delays, no weather patterns. Just order.”
“I get that,” Marcus said. He went quiet for a moment, his expression softening as he scrolled through his phone. “Speaking of order... and chaos.”
He turned the screen toward her. “These are my kids.”
Two small, bright faces smiled from the screen. They had his eyes.
Elara’s heart did a strange, uncomfortable somersault. She froze for a fraction of a second, the image stirring a mix of emotions she wasn’t prepared for. In her world, "baby daddies" meant complications. It meant she would never be the priority. It meant a life already full of someone else's history.
“They’re… beautiful,” she said softly. She forced the polite smile she had perfected over years of bad dates. “You must be proud.”
“They’re my whole world,” Marcus said, his voice thick with a pride that made Elara feel suddenly, sharply alone. “Everything I do is for them. It’s why I’m so desperate to get home. My daughter has her first recital on the twentieth.”
He kept talking, telling a story about a lost tooth and a chaotic school play, but a quiet distance crept into the air. To Marcus, it was a normal conversation. To Elara, it was a closed door. She focused on the easy humor of his voice, trying not to let the disappointment show on her face.
Eventually, the B&B grew quiet. The other guests had long since retreated.
“I should probably get some sleep,” Elara said, standing up. “Last night in purgatory.”
“Right. Tomorrow’s the big escape,” Marcus said, standing with her. “Good luck, Elara. Seriously. You deserve a win.”
She thanked him and climbed the narrow stairs to her room. The faint glow of the streetlights outside cast long, skeletal patterns on the walls.
She sat at the tiny desk and opened her nail kit. She needed the ritual. Carefully, she began to fix the chips, smoothing out the edges and adding a subtle, protective shine. It was a small, controlled accomplishment.
Outside, the cozy town slept under its blanket of frost. Tomorrow, her flight awaited. Tomorrow, she would finally be at the cottage.
She let herself linger in the memory of the evening. The laughter with Marcus had been real, even if the ending wasn't what she’d hoped for. For a girl living under December’s thumb, a few hours of feeling normal was a rare victory.
And as she blew on her wet nails, she whispered a quiet hope to the empty room. Let tomorrow be the day the luck finally turns
- Writer
