flora
Inside the Hanged Man, the light is dim and golden, the kind of hazy warmth that settles into the bones of the place like memory. Even now—with the bar closed for the day, the stools flipped, and a strange silence settling over everything, there’s something about it that still breathes, like it’s waiting for her to change her mind.
But Flora doesn’t. Can't.
The faint clink of glass carries through the quiet as she stacks another set of tumblers behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, curls pinned off her neck. Her heels are kicked off in the corner—sensible, for once—and a clipboard rests on the counter with a list written in tight, looping script:
HANGED MAN — HANDOVER PREP
☐ Restock limes
☐ Label poison drawer (DO NOT DRINK, EVEN IF DARED)
☐ Move Kaisel’s jacket to Lost & Found
☐ Rotate wine barrels
☐ Inventory knives (and feather daggers)
☐ Interview applicants?? ?
She exhales through her nose and leans back, hands on her hips, surveying the nearly empty bar. There’s something a little too quiet about it all. No off-key singing from the corner. No Spice dive-bombing a patron’s plate. No familiar voices calling her YoUr HiGhNeS S with exaggerated drunken bows. Just the low hum of the ceiling fan and the scent of old wood, citrus, and the faintest trace of blushberry from the prank she still hasn’t fully cleaned up.
But Flora doesn’t. Can't.
The faint clink of glass carries through the quiet as she stacks another set of tumblers behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, curls pinned off her neck. Her heels are kicked off in the corner—sensible, for once—and a clipboard rests on the counter with a list written in tight, looping script:
HANGED MAN — HANDOVER PREP
☐ Restock limes
☐ Label poison drawer (DO NOT DRINK, EVEN IF DARED)
☐ Move Kaisel’s jacket to Lost & Found
☐ Rotate wine barrels
☐ Inventory knives (and feather daggers)
☐ Interview applicants?? ?
She exhales through her nose and leans back, hands on her hips, surveying the nearly empty bar. There’s something a little too quiet about it all. No off-key singing from the corner. No Spice dive-bombing a patron’s plate. No familiar voices calling her YoUr HiGhNeS S with exaggerated drunken bows. Just the low hum of the ceiling fan and the scent of old wood, citrus, and the faintest trace of blushberry from the prank she still hasn’t fully cleaned up.
Flexing like a goddamn acrobat
Me and karma vibe like that
Me and karma vibe like that
