So You Want To Stay?

"Belonging is not assigned. It accumulates. Like dust, or regrets.”

— Seraphis Nightvale, Librarian of the Last Home

Have you visited the Inn before?

Did you linger at the end of an article, wondering what else might wait between the shelves?
Did you reread something you told yourself you’d only skim?
Did you flinch when the Soup remembered your name?

If so—

Well.

You keep showing up.

That’s not an accusation.
It’s a classification.

A few repeated glances. A comment left too late. A shared glance with a sentient teacup.
A bookmark you forgot to remove.
A hesitation at the door that didn’t feel like hesitation at all.

The Inn notices these things.
I notice these things.

And lately...
You’ve been seen.

We’ve marked you in the taproom, quietly nursing a pint you didn’t order.
Among the book stacks, staring too long at shelves that should not have names.
In the garden—where the lamps are never quite where you left them.

Could it be you’re looking for somewhere to stay?

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth:

If you’ve read this far, wandered this deep, and somehow made it through a full article without running from the Soup, then congratulations:

You’ve been filed for retention.

You are not a guest anymore.
You’re becoming a Patron.

What This Is

From time to time, the Last Home opens its doors to visitors from other threads—beings, concepts, characters, or fragments from worlds best left footnoted.

This is not a cameo.
This is an invitation.

You submit the idea.
I do the writing.
The Inn decides where you fit.

It usually does.

What You Can Offer

• A character, figure, or group from your own world
• Something original—or something already half-written and alive in your setting
• Preferably someone tired, lost, strange, curious, or entirely too interesting to let go of
• It can even be yourself, should you be foolish enough to ask

They will be interpreted, integrated, and written into The Last Home in full in-world style—
complete with proper resonance, flawed logic, and emotional consequences.

This is not promotion.
This is filing.

It is also my way of saying thank you.
To the ones who read.
To the ones who comment.
To the ones who keep returning,
as if the door was always meant for them.

Final Note

This is not a commission.
Not a transaction.
Not a badge you wear to be seen.

This is something the Inn does quietly,
when someone lingers a little too long.
When the Pattern starts curling in on itself.
When a name gets written in the margins more than once.

If that’s you—

Well.

You may offer another. A character. A fragment. A soul from a world you made.
Or you may offer yourself.

Threadwalkers stumble in more often than you’d think.
And some of them stay.

We’ve been expecting you.