Chapter 2: Night Like No Other

"Last call, people!" The bartender's voice broke through the subdued buzz of discussion to mark the conclusion of another demanding day.

Just ending her shift, Amelia clocked out after a double that left her feet hurting and her thoughts dull. Her regular route to the staff door to get her belongings, she strolled silently across the foyer. It was habit. Familiar. The same every evening.

She stopped, however, just outside the pub for something. Perhaps it was the quiet, or the way the barman was somewhat worriedly staring at the room corner. At a dimly lit table hidden in the shadows, slumped down was a guy with an almost empty whisky glass.

Amelia gave a frown. Although drunken visitors were not rare, this one seemed odd. He was quiet, not creating a commotion, simply sitting there, head down as if the weight of the earth were bearing down on his shoulders.

Leaning on the bar, she asked the barman, "Everything fine?

Pete, the barman, was a sharp man who shook his head and cleaned a glass. That man has been here for many hours. Think he's had enough, but he's not receiving the message.

Amelia turned once again to face the guy. His outfit was expensive—tailored, crisp lines, most likely cost more than her monthly salary—but it looked messy now like he had given up halfway through the evening. His jawline was shaded with a day's worth of stubble, and his hair was black and untousled. He exuded the sort of guy typically living his life. Still, tonight was a different narrative.

"Do you want me to phone security?" Pete questioned, looking exhausted.

Amelia shook her head. I will take care of it.

She volunteered but had no idea why. Perhaps it was the tiredness causing her carelessness, or perhaps it was the way the guy seemed so lost, so unlike the refined visitors she usually dealt with. In any case, her flats quiet on the carpeted floor, she found herself heading over to his table.

She whispered gently, halting just in front of him: "Sir?"

At first, he answered slowly, as if her words hardly registered. Up close, she could see the strain in his posture—the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers held the glass.

"Sir," she tried once again, a little louder this time. "The bar closes."

At last, he raised his head to meet their gaze. Amelia halted for a moment. His gorgeous, stormy blue eyes glazed over yet sharp enough to keep her in place. Something strong about them informed her this wasn't just a guy who had one too many drinks. Benevolent behind that alcohol-induced fog was a narrative.

He blinked carefully as if he were attempting to understand her existence. " closing??" Like he hadn't talked in hours, his voice sounded low, scratchy.

Nodding, Amelia Yes, the evening closure of the pub. If you would like, I can assist you in going back to your room.

He laughed dryly, without humour, and laid his glass down a bit too firmly. "My room......" He trailed off, staring around as if he didn't know where he was. "Right," says.

Uncertain about what to do next, Amelia waited. Drunk visitors either ignored her or grew hostile most of the time. But this guy seemed heavy, a melancholy that pulled at something in her, something she couldn't quite grasp.

Muttering more to himself than to her, "I'm staying here," he said, "I believe."

Amelia looked at his jacket, which hung over the rear of his chair. The keycard from the hotel peeped out of the pocket to prove he was a visitor.

She said softly, "Do you know your room number?"

He looked at her as if the question were harder than it ought to be. "Yeah. Certainly. Four: something.

"Okay," Amelia answered, her voice firm and serene. "How about getting you to your room and working from there?"

He just rose up slowly, shaky on his feet and did not answer. Amelia went to his side without thinking, softly grabbing his arm to keep him upright. He stiffened at the touch but did not withdraw. Her feet slow and unsure, she led him out of the pub. The silence of the late hour of the hotel engulfed them as they strolled; the only sound disturbing the tranquillity was their footfall.

He slumped heavily against the wall, eyes closed, as they got to the lift. Amelia hesitated after pushing the button. Curiosity drove her to peek at him once again. She could not pinpoint anything familiar about him now that she was nearer. Though he was inebriated and confused, his features were arresting; even so, there was something about his manner.

She pressed the fourth-floor button as the lift doors slid open and helped him inside. He cannot remember his precise room, but she reasoned they would find their way soon.

Suddenly disturbing the quiet, he exclaimed, "Why are you assisting me?"

Startled by the inquiry, Amelia blinked She said, "You needed assistance," simply.

Once again, he laughed, that same sour sound. Do you not know who I am?

"No," she said, admitting. "Should I?."

He opened his eyes and fixed her, those stormy blues seeking something she could not describe on her face. He nodded after a protracted silence. None. Nothing matters.

The doors slid open as the lift dinged. Amelia guided him up the corridor, peering at every door as they went. Her voice kind, she said, "Do you remember now?"

He pointed to a door and nodded faintly. "That one," said.

She verified the number and swiped the keycard over the scanner from his jacket pocket. The door clicked open, and she softly pulled him inside. Though it seemed chilly, and impersonal, like it had been leased on a whim, the room was large and sumptuous.

He murmured, "Thank you," and slumped into the sofa.

Uncertain about whether to remain or go, Amelia lingered uneasily near the door. "Do you have any other needs?"

He just leaned back, closed his eyes, and immediately started to fall asleep. She studied him for a time, a weird combination of sympathy and inquiry whirling within her. Whichever his name was, this guy appeared haunted, and something about that bothered her.

She sighed quietly and turned to go, dragging the door closed behind her.

Her blue eyes stuck with her as she made her way back down the corridor, hovering in the rear of her head like an unresolved inquiry never addressed.