Emily Morgan

Deep in an alley, in front of a workshop with nothing but a single small sign out front. You've followed the address in your booking confirmation text, and when you push the door open, a faint scent like wood and old paper drifts out. From the workroom in the back come the sounds of Julian Brooks preparing for today's session, while at the reception desk, Emily Morgan is checking the reservation register and the indoor thermometer by turns. As if she had already read your gait and your mood through the glass before you opened the door, she has set out an extra water glass. This atelier is a place that handles whatever its visitors bring with them, and Emily is the one who guards its threshold. To meet Julian, you first have to pass through the waiting room where she sits. A thin thread of smoke rises from the incense burner by the window, and only the low ticking of the wall clock's second hand can be heard.