The Western Bend

There was dust on the windows, moss on the roof, and a sign that hung crooked on one rusty hinge. The Western Bend.

Once, it was loud. Once, the bar stools wobbled from overuse, the fireplace snapped like it had gossip to share, and the innkeeper kept a sword behind the counter—not for show.

Now, it was mostly empty. Mostly.

A dirt road still passed by out front, but it was only used by people who meant to get lost.

The Northway Shortcut had seen to that. You see, downstream was never the problem—Northway and Midtown both sat on the Mana Awa. Just jump in a boat. Easy. But upstream? That was a walk. A proper, two-day slog. Until someone discovered the Shortcut.

Not built. Found.

A natural offshoot of the Mana Awa, it shimmered with pink, glittering magic and rushed through a cave system that bent the rules of direction. A magical current that cut straight through the land and spat you out upriver, near Northway, in less than a morning.

It changed everything.

The Western Bend, once the perfect rest stop on the long uphill route, became a forgotten backwater—too far to be useful, too close to be missed.

But the Bend was still there. Stubbornly.

Inside, the bar was polished, with the same tune always playing low on repeat. No clinking. No laughter. The innkeeper, a woman named Nessa, with a face like tree bark and the patience of stone, still opened every day at eleven. She still served stew. Still poured cider. Still kept that old sword. Habit.

Some evenings, a wanderer would stumble in. Not often. Maybe twice a week. They’d glance around, ask if the place was open, and Nessa would grunt something like: “Seems so, doesn’t it?”

Most didn’t stay the night.

But some did.

Some were running from things that couldn’t read maps. Some were drawn by the whisper of places that used to matter. And some—the rarest kind—came looking for what was left behind when the world moved on.

Because the Western Bend still held on to things.

There was a map carved into the floorboards beneath table six. If you poured a drink into the right knothole, it would glow.

There was a mirror in the bathroom that didn’t reflect faces after sundown. Only the weather in your hometown.

And the sword under the bar? It was once called Threatle. It hummed if someone with a threat came too close.

Nessa never said much. She’d serve you. Watch you. Maybe nod if she liked the way you held your spoon.

But on rare nights—when the wind howled a certain way through the gaps in the shutters, and the fire flickered blue instead of orange—she’d point at the old piano in the corner.

If you sat and played it (badly was fine), she’d tell you a story.

Maybe about the trader who stayed one night and vanished. Or the little girl who painted dreams on napkins and swore they moved when no one looked. Or the ranger with a haunted whistle, who claimed the forest outside the Bend was listening.

And if you asked, “Why are you still here?” She’d reply, without looking up: “Because one day, someone will need the long way round again.”

Then she’d slide you a bowl of stew, a pint of cider, and let the fire crackle.

And outside, the Shortcut would hum.

But the old road would stay quiet. Waiting.

Just in case.