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"Nice to meet you, Marge," Charlotte replied as she shook the woman's hand, sensing the stories behind each wrinkle.
"Welcome, my dear. I’m so sorry to tell you, but..." Marge studied her for a moment and then chuckled softly. "My grandson set up this online booking thing, you see. I don't know much about it, but he insisted it was the way to go. I only just saw that you were coming an hour ago on the computer."
Charlotte smiled at Marge's confession, feeling a kinship with the woman who seemed so grounded in tradition amidst the ever-changing world. She admired the determination it must have taken for Marge to maintain her beloved inn while adapting to modernity—or at least being dragged toward it by a grandchild.
"Your grandson sounds like a smart young man," Charlotte said sincerely, and Marge beamed with pride.
"Indeed, he is," Marge agreed, her voice laced with affection. "But enough about me and my ignorance of technology. You look soaked! Chilled to the bone. Let's get you settled in, shall we?"
"Oh, yes," Charlotte replied, her teeth chattering from the cold. "It's lovely to meet you. I'm afraid I had a bit of an accident near the cove. I fell into the water."
"Goodness, dear! Come inside and warm yourself by the fire. We'll get you a hot cup of tea and you can get some dry clothes," the woman said, ushering her inside. “Musn’t have you expiring on the lawn, you being my first online customer and all.”
"Thank you, Marge. I'm honored," Charlotte replied with a grin, stepping into the warm, darkened confines of the inn. The scent of aged wood and a hint of lavender filled her nostrils, immediately enveloping her in a sense of comfort.
"Right this way, love." Marge led Charlotte down a narrow hallway adorned with faded paintings of seascapes and portraits of long-gone residents. The worn wooden floorboards creaked beneath their feet, each step echoing like whispers of the past.
As they reached the foot of an imposing staircase, Marge gestured upward with a weathered hand. "Our rooms are upstairs, dear. I do hope you don't mind a bit of a climb."
Charlotte glanced at the winding stairs, noting the intricate carvings on the banister and the tattered edges of the carpet runner. She found herself captivated by the unique blend of craftsmanship and wear that seemed to embody the essence of the inn itself. "Not at all," she reassured Marge. "It's beautiful."
"Ah, thank you." Marge's voice softened with pride as they began their ascent. Charlotte tried not to let her suitcase wheels bump the stairs. "My great-grandfather built this place, you know. His hands crafted these very stairs."
Charlotte's fingers traced the grooves of the delicate carvings as they climbed, feeling the history of the place seep into her skin. The inn was a living demonstration of the love and dedication of generations, and she was deeply moved by it. As they neared the top, she paused to catch her breath, looking back down at the ornate entrance below.
"Quite a view, isn't it?" Marge commented, following her gaze. "I've always loved this staircase. There's something about it that makes you feel like you're ascending into another world."
Charlotte agreed. The inn seemed to be a portal to a simpler time, a refuge from the chaos of her life outside its walls. She inhaled deeply, taking in the musty scent of old books and the faintest hint of sea air.
"Let me show you to your room," Marge said, breaking the silence. As they continued up the stairs, Charlotte felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though she were on the verge of discovering something wonderful.
And perhaps, she thought, she truly was.
Marge pushed open the door, revealing a room that made it feel as though Charlotte had stepped back in time, entering a space where the ghosts of the past still lingered. The rustic atmosphere brought to mind images of another era—it was both fascinating and a little creepy.
"Here we are," Marge said, her voice softening as she gestured for Charlotte to enter.
Charlotte stepped inside, her eyes darting between the worn wooden furniture and the faded wallpaper that adorned the walls. She felt drawn to the room's enigmatic aura while simultaneously feeling a chill run down her spine.
"Is everything to your liking?" Marge inquired, her gaze steady on Charlotte.
"It's... intriguing," Charlotte replied, not quite able to put into words the emotions swirling within her. "It's like stepping into another world."
"Ah, yes," Marge nodded, a knowing smile gracing her lips. "This inn has a way of transporting you, doesn't it?"
As Charlotte moved further into the room, she traced her fingers along the rough surface of an antique dresser, feeling the history etched into every groove. Her heart raced as she took in the creaky floorboards and the cobwebs that clung to the corners, wondering what secrets the room held. And what insects.
"Many guests have come and gone over the years," Marge said, her voice taking on a wistful tone. "Some say they've felt the presence of those who walked these halls long before us."
"Do you believe in those things?" Charlotte asked, her voice hushed as if speaking louder might disturb the spirits.
"Who am I to say?" Marge shrugged, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Perhaps some things are better left unknown."
A shiver coursed through Charlotte's body as she considered the possibility, her curiosity piqued by the enigma that surrounded her.
"Thank you for showing me the room, Marge," Charlotte said, turning her gaze back to the older woman. "It's certainly a place I won't soon forget."
"Of course, dear," Marge replied warmly. "Shall I light the fire?” She gestured to the fireplace, which had been laid with an unlit stack of wood.
