Clements' Hut

A cramped, wood-planked shack that smells of damp earth and traces of blasting powder from old quarry work. The single room contains stacked crates of weathered tools, a kerosene lantern swinging from a low rafter, and a rusted iron safe bolted to the floor. Outside, the wind howls through a broken shutter while loose papers pinwheel across a table splintered from years of use. Laurence knows every splinter—from the chipped cupboard where his father once kept hunting rifles to the uneven floorboards that creak when the door opens.