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A quaint little inn sits by the sea.
It’s a darling place that always embraces you with the comfort of lavender and saltwater air. For the longest time it sat untouched, detached from the rest of the world, and worst of all unloved, that is until the two innkeepers happened upon it and decided to transform it into something that the sun, moon, and all the constellations painted across the night sky deserve to shine down upon.
Love was all it needed.
Love is what led to a rundown shack being rebirthed into a lovely dwelling that has the effect of making you feel like you truly belong to something. Unlike the innkeepers’ love for each other though, it did not happen to magically bloom overnight. Time and a lot of patience of course had to play a hand in creating what the inn is known to be today.
Despite the struggles, the frustration, and the urge to burn the place to the ground the second things seemed as if they would never begin to look up again– which unsurprisingly was a lot- the love never dwindled.
It overflows out of the two innkeepers with every single doting smile, every softened gaze, every last beat of their hearts. Their love for each other engulfs the entire inn and clings onto every single guest who walks through their doors, it even remains with them long after they leave.
Guests are never left underwhelmed during their stay either. The innkeepers always have stories to tell; some rather amusing and maybe slightly overexaggerated and others more gruesome that could make you lose your appetite, but the best stories of all are the ones they tell that are filled with uninterrupted love that quite literally saved both of their lives more than once. Those are the stories that will leave tears prickling in the corners of your eyes and your heart swelling.
The blonde particularly loves to tell the story of how they met when someone so as dare asks. His whole face lights up despite the story having a dreadful opening involving dire stab wounds and ropes around necks. The man with silvery hair will always fondly roll his eyes as his partner retells the story of being gut-stabbed but his love-adorned smile never once falters for a moment.
His eyes shimmer as if stars were plucked from the heavens in favor of forever sparkling in his irises every single time he looks at his partner– or even when his name is mentioned.
It’s beautiful and heartwarming, and the tales of the innkeepers’ time at sea forever lives with you as if you were sailing with them in those times.
The inn seems like a magical place to many.
Visitors swear that the stars twinkle brighter in the night sky here, and the constellations are easier to trace with your fingers. Even the moon always seems to be a size or two bigger than normal. The sunsets are always painting the sky in gorgeous shades of pinks, blues, purples, and of course the warm golden glow of the descending sun. It’s the kind of scenery you feel you only get to see in painted strokes across a white canvas.
The inn also doesn’t come without its ghost stories either.
Some visitors will claim that they have heard the rasp of a disembodied voice calling them a twat while others swear they heard footsteps– or more like a footstep and some type of heavy wooden knock on the floor around the inn in the midst of the night.
Perhaps those allegations of a haunt have something to do with the grave sitting feet away in front of the inn.
There always seems to be a ship or two always anchored in favor of occupants on the vessel to visit the burial. There always seems to be one particular ship that visits more often than others. A ship with a flag bearing some sort of resurrected animal that resembles a cat, and a destroyed figurehead on the bow that you can no longer make out what it used to be.
They always come and go, leaving little trinkets from their sail on the soil, or flowers wrapped around the odd-looking makeshift cross, and once a year they even gather around together with the innkeepers to pour out a fine bottle of brandy as a sign of respect.
The guests never question it, they don’t need to. It’s obvious that the band of mischiefs on that ship and the innkeepers have a soul-stirring history, and that the someone buried under the inn’s land was once family.
But no guest ever leaves the inn without standing by the grave themselves to pay respect to the fallen stranger.
No matter who comes and goes– even if it’s very briefly– the grave is never left bare of signs of love.
And that’s the point of the whole inn, isn’t it?
Love.
Love keeps the cottage forever wrapped in warmth. Love keeps the food exceptional and the beverages always refreshing. Love keeps the stories never-ending, the smiles unfaltering, and the shimmer of uninterrupted devotion forever shining in irises. Love keeps the gorgeous abode engulfed in the comforting scent of lavender and saltwater air.
Love managed to turn a broken-down shack that sat abandoned on a beach for years into a home to many and all who walk through the doors.