Transit, 12 (Patreon)

Lori's appeal to the reception desk was laced with urgency, her words careful but swift. The clerk, her face a practiced mask of neutrality, typed with purposeful clicks, searching the hotel's system.

"I really need my wallet and phone. They were with my clothes, sent to the laundry," Lori explained, her voice laced with a plea.

The clerk paused, her eyes not meeting Lori’s. "Нет записи," she responded initially in Russian, her fingers ceasing their dance across the keyboard.

Realizing the lapse, she switched to English with a heavy accent, "No record of your items. You call laundry service tomorrow."

Lori's brow furrowed in distress, the language barrier adding a complex layer to an already fraught situation. "No, you don't understand. My suitcase was swapped at the airport," she attempted to clarify, her tone a mix of desperation and hope for some semblance of understanding.

The clerk offered a perfunctory nod, though her eyes were glazed with the detachment of someone who has heard too many such stories. "You need airline," she said, her English broken but clear. "Not hotel problem."

The words were a dismissal, a closing door on the help Lori sought. She struggled to explain, her English words tumbling out faster, her hands gesturing to convey her predicament, but the clerk's attention had already drifted away, signaling the end of the conversation.

Lori stepped back, feeling a surge of helplessness. The lack of comprehension, the cultural and linguistic divide—it was all proving too much. She stood alone amidst the grandeur of the lobby, her personal crisis reduced to an inconvenient query for the clerk who had already moved on to the next task.