Most of the passengers who stepped off the ferry climbed straight into taxis.

We kept walking.

Dani followed her map through the quiet streets of Tallinn’s old town.

Snow dusted the cobblestones.

Gothic churches rose above shuttered cafes and dark shop windows filled with wooden toys.

The city had gone still for the night.

Our rental occupied one of the old stone buildings inside the walls.

Just as the host had promised, a lockbox hung beside the front door. Dani entered the code, retrieved a ring with two keys. One unlocked the building. The other was for our room.

Inside, the hallway was dim.

The instructions ended there.

No apartment number.

No floor.

Nothing.

Dani held up her phone as a flashlight, while I turned the keys over in my hand.

A brass tag hung from the ring.

In the poor light, its looping script looked like a seven—or maybe a one, or maybe a five.

We weren’t sure.

The first floor had six doors.

None matched.

At the end of the hall, a wooden staircase climbed into the darkness.

We hauled our bags upward as quietly as we could, each step answering with a loud groan beneath our boots.

At the top, a small brass number hung beside the first door.

7

The shape of the script looked close enough.

Dani slid the key into the lock.

It turned once with a sharp click.

She pushed.

Nothing.

She pushed harder.

Still nothing.

With one sharp motion, she handed me the key.

I stopped to study the lock.

Next to me, a Dani crossed her arms.

“What are you doing?”

Her question wasn’t really about the lock.

It was late.

We’d been traveling all day.

I didn’t want to barge into the wrong room.

She wanted to be inside.

I looked again.

The lock reminded me of old hotels I’d stayed in years earlier in Costa Rica. They didn’t release after a single turn. The deadbolt had to be wound back one notch at a time.

I turned the key again.

Click.

Again.

Click.

One more time.

The bolt slid free, and the door swung inward.