There’s a hotel that looks out on the ocean. I’ve never seen it open- but the windows show the evidence of guests. I’ve never seen anyone in there— but it’s not boarded up.

No one in town talks about it— even though it sits on the same lot as the most popular park.

It seems the eye of the community slips over the grey, oblong eyesore the hat catches my attention every time I walk through the park.

I want to know more— but I have this feeling that I shouldn’t ask. Almost as if I haven’t been noticed yet. That the attention of the hotel isn’t on me. I don’t know that I need to know— that’s what I tell myself. I don’t need to know. I don’t need to know.

I don’t need to know so much that I walked through the park twice a day. I stare at the windows— looking for the glimmer of movement. But there’s never anything there. No sounds. No sights. Just the grey shape between the rest of town and the ocean.

I don’t need to know.

Why would I need to know?

It’s not like it emanates a rumble like a door being slammed when you’re in a distant room. No sound— only disturbed vibrations.

Why would I need to know?

I don’t need to know.

The lock on the door doesn’t look very sturdy. I take my time with Amazon ordered lock picks.

Why would an open hotel have locked lobby doors?

Why would I need to know?