ADVERTISEMENT
The hotel had hosted every kind of guest imaginable over the years—business travelers rushing through with rolling suitcases, honeymooners glowing with nervous excitement, families exhausted from sightseeing—but Lina still remembered the two women more clearly than almost anyone else. They arrived on a wet evening when rain pressed against the glass doors and the lobby smelled faintly of coffee and polish. They stepped inside laughing, shaking water from their coats, carrying nothing more than two modest suitcases and an ease that instantly softened the space.
From the first night, they blended into the rhythm of the hotel as if they belonged there. Every morning, they greeted the staff by name, asked how the night shift had gone, and lingered at the coffee station chatting quietly. They requested extra shampoo and soap with polite smiles, never demanding, never entitled. Their room package included unlimited toiletries, so Lina never gave the requests a second thought. The women always thanked her warmly, as if the items were gifts rather than amenities.
ADVERTISEMENT