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Lina found herself curious, though she never asked questions. Years in hospitality had taught her that people came to hotels for reasons they didn’t always want explained. Some were escaping something. Some were waiting. Some were simply passing time until life clarified itself. These women felt purposeful, but not rushed. Calm, but not idle.
During long evening shifts, Lina noticed how their presence changed the atmosphere. They joked gently with the night clerk, complimented the lobby flowers, and remembered birthdays. When the workday dragged, their warmth made it feel shorter. It was subtle, but real. The hotel felt less transactional, more human.
She walked down the quiet hallway toward their room, gifts in hand, rehearsing a friendly farewell. The corridor smelled faintly of cleaning solution and carpet shampoo. Everything felt normal, routine, expected.
She knocked, announced herself, and stepped inside.
Her smile stopped mid-expression.
The room was unrecognizable.
Where there should have been clean lines and neutral décor, there were stacks—dozens upon dozens—of tiny shampoo bottles and neatly wrapped bars of soap. They lined the walls in careful rows, arranged by size and brand, some bundled in towels, others sorted into improvised categories. It looked less like a guest room and more like a meticulously organized supply depot.
For a brief, disorienting moment, Lina wondered if she had opened the wrong door.
But the women were there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, relaxed and smiling, as if nothing about the scene was unusual.
One of them caught Lina’s expression and laughed softly. Not embarrassed. Not defensive. Just amused.
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