The Sudden Hearth: Dreamer’s Respite
There are places I know too well. Valleys I could walk blindfolded. Mud, fog, reeds, the endless sameness of the Mire. Yet once, in a valley I knew by heart, I found smoke rising where no hearth had ever stood.
A tavern door waited by the roadside. Its timbers were sound, its chimney crooked but working, its windows lit in the dusk. The sign swayed in a wind that had not touched the grass:
The Dreamer’s Respite.
Inside, the man at the counter asked if I wanted “the usual.”
The Hearth Itself
The tavern never appears at a distance. No one has seen its roofline across the valley or its chimney from a ridge. It is simply there when one happens upon it, whole and waiting.
The exterior is too neat for the swamp. Moss-dark wood with no rot, smoke curling at just the right pace, warm light always caught behind shutters. Step away, and it vanishes like a trick of the eye. Step closer, and it greets you like a place you have always known.
Inside the Door
The Respite feels like memory made solid.
A fire burns with impossible steadiness. The tables are filled with murmuring patrons—familiar yet unplaceable—who nod as though you belong among them. The bartender moves without pause, always calm, always polite, always knowing your name before you offer it. A drink is poured before you order.
The cook is only ever glimpsed. A hulking figure behind the kitchen’s door, apron perpetually damp, silhouette heavy and wrong in some small way. No one mentions him.
The air is thick with scents that are too personal: the smell of a parent’s stew, the spice from an old lover’s cloak, the warmth of a hearth you swore you left behind.
Behaviors of the Place
The Respite feeds not on coin, but on recognition. Its sustenance is drawn from familiarity, from the ache of being remembered. The longer one lingers, the more it begins to know.
Flames may burn blue, yet give off the right warmth. Patrons may repeat the same gestures endlessly, like figures in a loop. The back door may lead only to the front. Time itself halts—clocks frozen, windows forever fixed at sunset.
Those who sleep beneath its roof rarely wake unchanged. I have heard of wanderers forgotten by their kin, of reflections older than the body that cast them, of wounds bound and healed without memory of their making. The Respite offers rest, but always takes something in return.
The Secret Below
Behind the bar lies a locked door. The bartender insists it is “only storage.” The cook grows uneasy if you near it. At the hour of deepest night, weeping echoes faintly from beneath the floor.
Below, there is no cellar of casks. The basement is cold stone, lined with jars of herbs and bones. And deeper still: a chamber sealed with lead and wax.
Inside rests a vampire, ancient and skeletal, not stirring from hunger but from dream. The tavern above is its slumber given shape: a sanctuary woven of longing, sustained by feeding on memory and recognition.
Disturb the coffin, and the dream breaks. The tavern vanishes, leaving only mud, storm, and the bewildered travelers who thought themselves safe within.
Oddities
- A patron sketches your likeness without once looking up. The drawing is finished before you sit down.
- When rain falls outside, no droplets strike the tavern roof, yet the mud at its threshold grows wet.
- The tavern whispers your name in your own voice from the rafters.
- Some leave with memories that do not belong to them—traces of another’s life, absorbed and carried away.
Variants
- The Hearth may vanish with the dawn, leaving sleepers cold in the mud.
- A meal eaten here may cost you a memory, though you will never know which.
- Should the coffin be destroyed, the tavern unravels instantly, collapsing into rain and ruin.
- There are tales of a patron leaving with your clothes, your face, your life—and the world believing it was always theirs.
Reflection
The Dreamer’s Respite is no predator, nor is it a gift. It is the shadow of a mind unwilling to surrender its comforts. A dream made solid, a memory made shelter.
For the weary, it is respite with hidden teeth. For the curious, it is the lesson that warmth itself can consume.
She asked if I wanted the usual. I said yes. I had no idea what she served. But it was delicious.
