The Last Roof

When the fire came through Silvershire, it took thatch and timber and nearly everything else. The Last Roof is built of old field stone under slate, and it stood. Its shutters are still black at the edges, and nobody has painted them.

Now it is the one warm room on the road. Survivors eat here because their own kitchens are gone. Travelers stop because there is nowhere else. Soldiers from the war camp down the road come in too, in twos and threes, and drink in silence at the far table. They always pay double. Nobody asks them to, and nobody thanks them.

The rule of the house is quiet. Talk low, eat slowly, and let people grieve without an audience.