Chapter 150

At the "Blackthorn" pub, the time quietly slipped to 21:47, just as the evening's clamor was beginning to reach a boil. The pub was filled with an ambiguous and relaxed atmosphere. Under the warm, dim light overhead, the walnut bar counter acted like a hazy mirror, reflecting the flickering lights as if the ripples of time were gently drifting across its surface. In the corner, the melody of a jazz saxophone flowed leisurely, its notes like agile Elves intertwining with the crisp sound of ice cubes colliding in glass cups, weaving a movement exclusive to the night that plucked at the heartstrings of every customer.