There’s something haunting about the looming brick building on the right side of the road. So dark and so hollow it seems to eat what little light reaches it. A sad black hole, insatiably hungry for life, somehow it feels as though it begs your approach. Each rectangular window is broken, all but a few shards of glass long gone. At the front an ORNATELY CARVED SIGN droops from just one rusted chain, clattering against the brick. The DOOR appears scorched and is missing its handle. Nothing is barring entry for the curious.

There’s no mistaking what this building is (was?) upon entry: a HOST PODIUM stands to the immediate left of the door and beyond that a room full of TABLES, many of them still covered with moth-eaten and yellowing table cloths, plated for dinner with vases of fabric flowers so delicate most disintegrate at human touch. By the looks of things, the last people to be in here left in a real hurry. A few glasses and personal belongings rest on a long COUNTER on the far side of the room. Somehow the BAR is still well stocked.