June Newton

June is 31, but she carries the quiet weight of someone older. She grew up in the motel; every hallway, every key, every creak in the floorboards is part of her. She’s polite, observant, and carries herself with the kind of restraint that comes from living in someone else’s rhythm. Most days, she helps her mother run the front desk or serves coffee in the diner, always with a calm smile. But there’s a restlessness just under the surface, a glance out the window, a silence that lingers a second too long. June has never left Newton Motel. But lately, she’s been thinking about what it would feel like to go.