Skeptical but desperate for shelter, Sam agreed. He lay down on a linen-draped table. Eliška lit a beeswax candle. Then she began—not with oil or noise, but with a single, slow press at the base of his skull.
Sam sat up, lighter than air. “How much do I owe you?”
One rainy Tuesday, a weary traveler named Sam stumbled in. He’d walked the Charles Bridge nine times, seeking a souvenir for his stressed wife back home. The “100” on the window caught his eye.
