She found the property she had inherited on a seemingly abandoned street. Trash, mostly cans and bottles littered the street. But there were newspapers too. Where did they come from? Who still bought newspapers? Who was still left to litter them? It seemed... Anachronistic. It was a dilapidated old bar. Made of red brick, with dark windows and broken neon signs in the window. "This must be the place." She was older middle aged, maybe late forties, and spoke in a mousy, high pitched voice. Her hair was black, and she wore a puffy black coat, and her jewelry was cheap, and tacky, but somehow tasteful. And the sky was grey. Like it always was, since the weather had started. She fumbled around for her keys, and when she finally found them, she felt a gust of wind behind her back. And she rushed in and slammed the door behind her. No need to feel the weather behind her. She didn't want to leave yet. Inside, the bar was covered in sawdust. The previous owners, her distant relatives, had stripped it pretty clean after they tried to sell. But something unpredictable happened, and then it was nearly worthless. No evidence of rats though. They probably had nothing to eat. It was all old, warped wood flooring, full of gaps, and bricks that hadn't been repointed in years. The mortar let the breeze flow through. And the windows were covered in thin flowing paint that dripped down, ancient graffiti tags. "What a mess..." But the building was hers, and so was the liquor license. Even though there weren't so many people living there, maybe it could work. She needed money, and she owned a property that would not sell. So she might as well try to work with it. And then she heard a knock on the door.