Emil

In my line of work, you learn not to stare at people.

That is one of the first rules of a decent hotel manager. Right after the fact that you never judge a guest by the amount of luggage they have and that you always take complaints about the room temperature seriously.

Even if the guest in question claims the air is too cold while the thermometer reads twenty-two degrees.

Room seven, however, regularly presents me with certain challenges.

At 12:43 a.m., I received word that the guest had already arrived.

This was unusual, as I had neither noticed an arrival nor issued a key. Ten minutes later, I was standing before the open room door.

There was indeed someone inside.

I will refrain from providing a detailed description here. Not out of discretion alone, but because even today I am not sure which of my observations were actually accurate.

The guest had too many eyes.

That is not a particularly elegant phrasing for an official hotel log. But a more accurate one has not occurred to me so far.

I introduced myself and inquired whether everything was to their satisfaction.

"No mirrors," the guest replied.

I assured them that this request could, of course, be accommodated.

"No small ones either."

"Of course."

"And no one is to come in."

"Certainly."

Then the guest pointed to the glass of water on the bedside table.

"That stays."

I looked at the glass.

It was a perfectly ordinary drinking glass, like the ones we use in all the rooms.

"As you wish."

With that, our conversation was over.

At least, I thought so.

Half an hour later, a silver key was handed in at the reception desk. It had been found in the hallway outside room seven.

I checked every lock. The key did not fit a single door in the hotel. That would have been strange enough. But no sooner had I placed it in the lost and found than it reappeared on the reception counter.

Another find.

The same key.

This time also from the hallway outside room seven. It was still warm.

I stored it carefully and decided not to pursue the matter further for the time being.

A hotel manager should know when it is better not to ask questions.

Later, I walked down the hallway once more. I stopped outside room seven.

Behind the door, I heard a soft voice.

Then a second.

And finally a third.

They were all speaking at once.

I could not understand a single word.

My hand was already on the door knocker when suddenly there was absolute silence.

"Is everything all right?" I asked.

For a while, nothing happened.

Then a single voice replied.

"Now it is."

I waited a moment longer, wished them a pleasant night, and went back to the reception desk.

There, I added the instructions for the night shift.

No room service. No mirrors. Do not remove the glass.

One might think such requests would be unpleasant for a hotel manager.

I see it differently.

Some people travel to discover something new. Others to leave something behind. And occasionally, someone comes to a hotel because they do not want to see for one night what otherwise accompanies them everywhere.

As long as my guest feels safe here, I will not complain about it.

However, I have decided to keep the silver key in my own desk drawer.

This morning, it was on the reception counter again.

I will probably have to have a serious word with our locking system.

Lucian arrived seven minutes after midnight.

I remember it so clearly because I was just setting the grandfather clock in the lobby correctly.

It loses four minutes every night.

I have already had it repaired several times. By now I suspect that it has its own idea of punctuality.

Lucian entered the hotel, placed a slim leather bag on the counter, and asked for a room.

"Good evening, Lucian. An unexpected visit," I said.

"I hope so."

I looked at him.

He looked tired. Not exhausted, like after a long day's work. More like someone who had been thinking about something for quite some time that stubbornly refused to make sense.

"How long do you want to stay?"

"Just for tonight."

"A quiet room?"

"If possible."

I had to smile.

"You're a librarian, Lucian. Isn't your library quiet enough?"

He looked at me with that expression he usually reserves for people who return books with dog-eared pages.

"Books are rarely the problem, Emil."

"Of course not. It's always the readers."

For the first time that evening, he smiled.

I gave him room ten.

As he took the key, I noticed a book in his bag.

It was old, bound in dark cloth, and had no title.

"An interesting read?" I asked.

Lucian followed my gaze. "Possibly."

"You don't know?"

"I'm not sure yet if it can even be read."

I refrained from further questions.

There are things you had better not discuss with librarians. This includes damaged book spines, alphabetical order, and apparently also books without titles.

Lucian put the key in his pocket, but stopped in front of the stairs.

"Emil?"

"Yes?"

"Is room seven occupied?"

I looked at the guest register.

"Reserved for tonight. The guest has not yet arrived."

Lucian nodded slowly. "I see."

"Are you expecting someone?"

"Not personally."

It was one of those answers with which Lucian manages to be polite and thoroughly unsatisfying at the same time.

I clasped my hands behind my back.

"If you know anything that is important for the hotel's operation, now would be an excellent time to tell me."

Lucian looked at the stairs for a moment. "Pay attention tonight to who asks for a key."

"I generally do."

"And who doesn't ask for one." With that, he said goodbye.

I was left alone in the lobby.

It is a regrettable trait of some people that they believe a mysterious sentence is a suitable substitute for a reasonable explanation.

Lucian undoubtedly belongs to this category.

Around one o'clock, I went upstairs to see about the guest in room seven. On the way, I noticed light under the door of room ten.

I knocked.

"Lucian? Do you need anything?"

It took a moment.

"No, thank you, Emil."

"I just wanted to make sure you had your peace."

"I do." Then he added: "You shouldn't always believe your guests when they say that everything is fine."

I had to smile. "And you should occasionally try to use complete sentences."

Behind the door I heard a soft laugh.

When I looked at room ten the next morning, Lucian was already gone.

The bed was untouched.

The room key lay on the desk, neatly next to an empty water glass. Beneath it I found a small note.

"Thank you for the peace. It was necessary."

Nothing more.

He had taken the book with him.

I kept the note in my personal guest book.

Not because of its content.

But because Lucian never writes thank-you notes.

And because since that night I have suspected that he hadn't come to sleep.

He had been waiting for something.

Perhaps I should occasionally remind him that hotel managers also have a right to be let in on the secret.

Although I fear I already know his answer.

I believe that a hotel lobby should have a certain dignity.

A properly polished counter, fresh flowers, pleasant lighting. And above all, no objects that don't belong there.

At 1:15 a.m., this rule was suspended by a lantern.

Mira appeared at the reception desk in the middle of the night.

She wore a coat whose pockets were apparently designed to hold at least twice as many things as a sensible person should carry.

In her hands, she held a small lantern.

Inside it shone a star.

Not an ordinary light.

It didn't flicker, even though the front door was still open and a cold wind was blowing through the lobby.

Mira carefully placed the lantern on the counter.

"Could you keep an eye on it for a moment?"

I looked at the glowing object. "Of course. May I ask how long?"

"I don't know."

I nodded. "Excellent. A most precise estimate."

She grinned. Then she looked toward the door. "Sometimes you have to leave something behind so that someone else can find it."

In my line of work, I had already heard many unusual explanations.

This one was definitely among the more interesting.

"And what exactly is to be found?"

Mira shrugged.

"Maybe someone who doesn't know where to go."

I looked at the lantern again.

"In that case, I could also provide a city map."

She laughed. "That's not quite the same thing, Emil."

"No, probably not." I noted her stay in Room Sixteen and handed her the key.

But before she left, she turned around once more. "You'll leave it on, won't you?"

"Of course."

"Even if no one is here?"

I looked at her. "Especially then."

She smiled as if I had passed a particularly difficult test, and disappeared up the stairs.

I placed the lantern on the small table next to the reception desk. Normally, a vase of white flowers stood there. 

I placed the flowers on the windowsill. It was a small change, but at first, it bothered me considerably.

For years, that vase had stood in the same place.

I like reliability.

Flowers should stand where flowers belong.

However, I soon noticed something peculiar. The lantern's glow fell exactly on the front door.

Not very far. Just a narrow, warm strip on the old floor tiles.

But everyone who entered the hotel had to walk through it.

Shortly after two, the lighthouse keeper returned from a walk.

He stopped, looked at the lantern, and smiled.

"That reminds me of something," he muttered.

I didn't ask what.

Later, a woman in uniform, who had barely spoken a word for days, sat in the lobby for a few minutes.

She looked at the little star and finally asked for a cup of tea.

We talked about the weather. About the unusually quiet streets. And about how the flowers by the window really did look better.

It wasn't a significant conversation.

But she smiled for the first time since her arrival.

Toward morning, Mira returned.

She stood before the table.

"You really left it on."

"Of course."

"Did anyone need the light?"

I thought of the lighthouse keeper.

Of the woman with the tea.

Of the many people who walked through my lobby every evening, of whom I sometimes only knew the room number on their key.

"Yes," I replied. "I think so."

Mira nodded contentedly. Then she took her lantern. As she went toward the door, I asked if she needed anything else.

She shook her head.

"No, thank you, Emil. But maybe you could leave the little light next to the desk on?"

I looked at the brown lamp at the reception desk.

"That one is always on anyway."

"Good."

She said goodbye and disappeared into the street.

Since that evening, I leave the lamp on even when the lobby is empty.

My staff have already pointed out that it unnecessarily wastes electricity. I explained to them that it is a new measure to improve guest satisfaction.

That sounds much more professional than the truth.

Sometimes a person doesn't need a signpost, a conversation, or even a room.

Sometimes they just want to know that somewhere, a light is still burning.

P.S.:

I didn't put the flowers back in their original place.

A small lamp stands there now.

A purely decorative choice, of course.