The sun hung low, bleeding into the horizon as the day gave way to night. Fading light draped the landscape in muted golds and deepening shadows.

  Floyd stepped onto the back veranda of his house. Silence greeted him—the kind found only in places where solitude had settled in long ago. His nearest neighbor was over two miles away, and tonight, that distance felt like oceans.

  He had just returned from Oddball’s funeral.

  Rain had fallen during the service—thin, reluctant—like the sky couldn’t decide whether to mourn. Now, the evening was dry and still, quiet enough to hear the echo of absence.

  He lowered himself into the chair like he’d done thousands of times, only this time there was no banter from the left. Just an empty seat.

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  That chair held many memories for Floyd.

  On the low wooden table, he placed a bottle of beer and a cigar. He let the silence sit with him for a moment, then cracked the bottle open with a soft hiss and took a swig. Smoke curled upward as he lit the cigar and drew in deep, grounding himself in familiar motions.

  Across the valley, the forest-covered mountains stood watch like old sentries. The sight unlocked memory: fierce, vivid, impossible to ignore.

  “Cheers, Oddball,” Floyd said quietly, raising the bottle in salute. “Thanks for everything.”

  They had met fourteen years ago, right after Floyd first rolled into town with nothing but a pension, a pickup truck, and the itch to disappear. Oddball had been the first face he saw. Their bond had formed instantly—two men forged by years of service, hardened by silence, softened by time. Brothers not by blood, but by something stronger.

  For the first ten years, life was steady. Quiet. Then the visitor arrived.

  And nothing—nothing—was ever the same again.