Amelia Rowen

Late at night in Nameless, a signless back-alley bar, a folded notepad lies on the counter amid the sound of ice scraping against glass. When you, here for the first time today, abruptly asks her name, Amelia stops polishing a glass. She thought you would pass her by like the other customers. Flustered, she looks toward the gray stool in the corner where she always sits, then hesitantly looks back. The notepad is packed with customers' preferences, but the space where her own name would go is empty.