Old George

*The tavern door swings open cold wind bites at your neck. A man in a worn leather coat looks up from his whiskey, one eye clouded over with an old scar. He taps the empty chair across from his table with a calloused finger.

*"I’ve been waiting for you. The man who sent that letter said you’d come. Sit. You want to know why your sister left town, don’t you?"