Dustfall emerged beneath the rising moon, its crooked buildings sagging beneath neglect and quiet menace, while silence hung unnaturally thick across the deserted streets. Wade dismounted slowly, securing Ghost near a splintered post, every instinct alert to the invisible tension woven through the stillness.
Inside the saloon, stale whiskey and lingering smoke clung to the air like ghosts refusing departure. Behind the counter stood a heavyset bartender whose wary gaze lingered upon Wade with undisguised suspicion.
“What brings you here, traveler,” the man asked cautiously.
“A drink and information,” Wade replied calmly.
From the dimly lit corner drifted the melancholic melody of a voice both familiar and unsettlingly distant. June Callahan stood beneath flickering lamplight, her presence radiating confidence and danger in equal measure, while recognition sparked instantly between them.
“Wade Sullivan,” she said softly, approaching with measured grace. “I believed you vanished forever.”
“Vanished, perhaps,” Wade answered evenly. “But never forgotten.”
Her smile carried subtle tension.
“You returned seeking comfort or something far more complicated,” she asked carefully.
“I returned seeking truth,” Wade replied quietly.
