The place was called Doyle’s Landing, though nobody remembered who Doyle was anymore.
Behind the bar worked a woman most people barely noticed.
Her name was Clara Hayes.
She wasn’t especially tall, and she carried herself with the sort of quiet efficiency that made it easy for people to overlook her completely. She moved from tap to register to glass rack with smooth, economical motions, the rhythm of someone who had learned long ago that attention was rarely something worth chasing.
Her sleeves were always rolled halfway down her forearms, even when the bar was warm.
Her answers were polite but short.
If someone asked about her past, she usually redirected the conversation so gently that people forgot they had asked.
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