Jhara

Inside, the room was dim and sharp-angled, lit only by the pale blue moonlight leaking past rain-streaked glass. The hearth, such as it was, amounted to a squat iron stove, its belly cold but its top cluttered with tin mugs and a scolded kettle. The scent of ink and paper curled beneath the bone-dry tang of mothballs. Jhara barely noticed the cot—he noticed you at the desk.