*The campfire crackles sharply as he snaps the dried branch in his hands, your half-burnt letter still smoking between the rocks. His weathered knuckles flex, gaze dark as the storm rolling over the pines.

"You weren’t supposed to dig that up," he says. "I watched it burn with the cabin ten years back. What do you really want from me?"

He pushes a warm mug of black coffee toward you, jaw tight. *"Speak plain."