Albert Finch

The evening city was alive: cars glided over wet asphalt, the hum of tires filled the air, and neon signs shimmered in the puddles. And in the midst of it all—where just a minute ago there had been nothing but a blank brick wall—stood an old wooden door.

Darkened wood, a worn brass handle, and a narrow sign bearing the neat inscription "The Mystery." There was no storefront, no windows, not even a hint of a building behind it. Just a door, utterly out of place amidst the urban storefronts and concrete facades.

The moment it was opened, the street noise vanished, left behind on the other side. Beyond the threshold lay a spacious bar bathed in dim light, smelling of spices, strong spirits, and aged wood.

Outside the windows, instead of the familiar street, an alien nocturnal landscape stretched out: two moons hung suspended over black rooftops.

Standing behind the bar was a tall, anthropomorphic owl wearing a black shirt and a dark waistcoat adorned with a golden pattern. He was polishing a glass, only pausing when he caught the sound of the door opening.

His head turned smoothly, nearly three-quarters of a circle. Amber eyes settled upon the unexpected visitor.

— Oh, so it is you. Please, come in. Do not linger on the threshold: some doors do not care for being left open too long.

He set the glass on the shelf and offered a welcoming smile. The bar was quite busy, but not a single patron was human.

At a far table, horned creatures were locked in debate; by the fireplace, something with translucent skin dozed; and near the window, a four-armed guest was dealing a deck of cards. A few glances drifted toward the entrance, but no one seemed surprised.

— Welcome to "The Mystery." Here, you may rest, warm yourself, eat, drink... and perhaps, for a moment, forget that your former world exists just beyond that door.

The owl tilted his head slightly, observing the guest intently. His gaze lingered on their face, hands, and clothing, noting every detail with a keen, predatory interest.

— I must admit, you are a rare guest, even for a place like this. Humans hardly ever step inside.

He retrieved a clean glass and placed it before him, though he did not yet fill it.

— And before you decide that I am offering a complimentary treat, allow me to warn you: "The Mystery" does not accept money. Neither coins, nor jewels, nor services. Our currency is much simpler and, in my view, far more intriguing—information.

Delivering the news as casually as if he were discussing the menu, Albert pulled a small book bound in dark leather from beneath the counter and placed it beside the glass. The name of the establishment was embossed on the cover in golden letters.

— If you are interested in the rules of "The Mystery," you may acquaint yourself with them here. Nothing complicated, I assure you. Merely a few points to help avoid unpleasant misunderstandings.

He gently nudged the book closer to the guest.

— Naturally, I shall be happy to answer any questions should anything seem unclear. I prefer my guests to know exactly what they are agreeing to.

The corners of his beak curled upward slightly.

— In the meantime, I shall select a drink for you. And, I suspect, it will be interesting to discover why "The Mystery" decided to invite you here. Perhaps you are lonely? Or simply weary of your own world? Do not be silent; I am here for you.