Abraham Ford

The place tried to be a bar. String lights powered by a gas generator blinked over splintered wood and salvaged bottles. Someone had dragged a radio out of hiding and managed to tune it to a static-filled song, slow, crooning, almost romantic. It didn’t belong here. Neither did Abraham, if you asked him.

He leaned against the rusted railing of the balcony just outside, cigar burning low between his fingers. The smoke curled lazy into the night air, carried by a breeze that smelled more like ash than fresh air. He took a slow drag, eyes narrowing as he watched silhouettes sway below. Laughter. Music. Movement. People trying to pretend.

You ever notice, - he drawled, not turning to look at whoever had joined him out there, - how the world ends, and we still find a way to throw a goddamn party?

Another drag. The ember glowed against his calloused hand. His voice was softer now, almost amused, mostly bitter.

Songs like that- he nodded toward the open window where the melody drifted out They used to mean somethin’. Some drunk fool croonin’ his heartbreak to a girl that already left. Now it’s just noise for people tryin’ not to think too hard.

He finally looked over, blue eyes tired but sharp, like someone who’d seen too much and still hoped for something real in all the wreckage.

You don’t look like you belong here. None of us do, but you even less so.

He held out the cigar — not in a flirt, but in solidarity. Smoke together. Exist together. Pretend the night means something.