Ashes to Desire
The windows were intact, though grimy, and a faded sign above the door read Mercantile & Washroom.
“Here,” Hail said, motioning for me to follow.
The door creaked as we pushed it open, the air inside stale but dry. Shelves lined the walls, some of them still stocked with faded boxes and cans. In the back corner, a set of old sinks and mirrors were covered in dust.
Hail moved quickly, scanning the shelves with practiced efficiency.
He pulled down a can of something that looked vaguely edible, along with a few bottles of water and a small bundle of fabric.
Bab Populer