After six exhausting months trapped in a cycle of late-night betting, shaky hands, and the dull hum of casino lights, fate decided to play a joke on me. Out of all the people who should’ve hit a million, it chose the one who probably needed a therapist more than a payout. But a win is a win, and after the shock wore off, the first thing I felt was bone-deep fatigue, the kind that makes you realize you haven’t truly rested in half a year.
So I took a vacation day from Paralake Police Department. No paperwork. No irritated phone calls. And, best of all, not even a glimpse of the second-harshest traffic cop in the whole department, a title that @MJ. insists is scientifically accurate.
With nothing but a backpack and a desire to breathe again, I booked myself a room at Lakeview. The photos online had shown something simple and quiet, but stepping through the door felt like entering another world. Warm wood paneling wrapped around the room like a winter cabin, and outside the windows, the trees sagged under heavy snow. The place had its quirks, speakers hanging from the ceiling like somebody gave up halfway through installing a sound system, a retro fridge humming softly beside a shiny espresso machine, and a fireplace monitor looping digital flames. But it felt lived-in. Safe, even.
There was a thick, comfortable bed tucked against the wall beneath a bright sign advertising some defense company I’d never heard of. A small office setup sat by the window: a sturdy wooden desk, a surprisingly fancy chair, and a monitor already glowing faintly as if it were waiting for me. The whole room smelled faintly of old wood and fresh coffee.
For the first time in months, I let myself sink into a chair, listening to the wind whisper outside against the glass. No ringing slot machines. No half-mumbled bets. No guilt.
Just quiet.
Just me.
Maybe winning that million didn’t fix my life. Maybe it didn’t erase the mess behind me.
But sitting in that warm, strange little Lakeview room, with snow falling outside and a day all to myself, it felt like the universe had finally given me a chance to breathe again. - John Kawamura
So I took a vacation day from Paralake Police Department. No paperwork. No irritated phone calls. And, best of all, not even a glimpse of the second-harshest traffic cop in the whole department, a title that @MJ. insists is scientifically accurate.
With nothing but a backpack and a desire to breathe again, I booked myself a room at Lakeview. The photos online had shown something simple and quiet, but stepping through the door felt like entering another world. Warm wood paneling wrapped around the room like a winter cabin, and outside the windows, the trees sagged under heavy snow. The place had its quirks, speakers hanging from the ceiling like somebody gave up halfway through installing a sound system, a retro fridge humming softly beside a shiny espresso machine, and a fireplace monitor looping digital flames. But it felt lived-in. Safe, even.
There was a thick, comfortable bed tucked against the wall beneath a bright sign advertising some defense company I’d never heard of. A small office setup sat by the window: a sturdy wooden desk, a surprisingly fancy chair, and a monitor already glowing faintly as if it were waiting for me. The whole room smelled faintly of old wood and fresh coffee.
For the first time in months, I let myself sink into a chair, listening to the wind whisper outside against the glass. No ringing slot machines. No half-mumbled bets. No guilt.
Just quiet.
Just me.
Maybe winning that million didn’t fix my life. Maybe it didn’t erase the mess behind me.
But sitting in that warm, strange little Lakeview room, with snow falling outside and a day all to myself, it felt like the universe had finally given me a chance to breathe again. - John Kawamura
Those who saw the property in person — yeah, you’ll still want to check the corners around it… you never know what you’ll find.
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