Where This All Came From

A quiet note from the one in the backroom

“I didn’t mean to build a pub at the heart of the multiverse. I just needed somewhere to hide for a while.”

The Last Home didn’t begin as a grand idea.
It started as a simple one—a D&D pub on the edge of the wilds, something casual, throwaway. A backdrop. A place to run one-shots and let people laugh, drink, and punch a few things with flavour.

But the longer I wrote, the more it grew.
Characters started showing up louder than they had any right to be. Jokes turned into backstories. Absurdity started carrying weight. It became clear this wasn’t just a setting—it was something else. Something I was carrying, or maybe something carrying me.

Somewhere between anime tropes dialled to eleven, metaphysical nonsense scribbled after midnight, and the echoes of a hundred abandoned projects, this became a story about why I write at all.

Why It Matters (To Me)

I’ve struggled, more than I like to admit. With grief. With burnout. With the creeping sense that nothing I made was ever quite good enough. The Last Home became the place I returned to when I couldn’t hold onto anything else. A strange little inn that said, “That’s alright. Stay as long as you need.”

It’s built from countryside memories, from books I read when I needed to laugh through the ache, from stories I started and couldn’t finish, and the fragments of a life that never really fit anywhere else. It became a setting that doesn’t ask me to be consistent, or productive—it just lets me write what I need, when I need it.

And If You're Still Reading...

I wasn’t sure I’d ever share this part.
Even now, I don’t know if I should.

I’ve never found belonging easy. Not growing up. Not now. I’ve always felt like I was watching other people live their stories, while mine stayed paused. I don’t make friends easily. I don’t always know how to be part of something.

But this Inn... it became the place where that feeling belonged.

So maybe someone else out there needs a place like this too.
Somewhere that doesn’t demand anything from you.
Somewhere you’re allowed to sit, breathe, and just be real for a while.

If that’s you—
There’s a table waiting.
The chairs are already arranged.
The Inn already knows your name.