THE CROOKED PIPE
Tavern. Print room. Flooded cellar. Closed, but listening.
> You knock.
> Someone inside knocks back.
> A voice, muffled by wood and age:
"We're fishing."
"Back when the tide turns."
"Or when something bites."
> Silence. Then, scratching. A note slides under the door.
No keys issued today.
No names recorded.
You were still seen.
│_