silas

The sun was disappearing behind the mountains when Silas arrived in that small town.

No one saw him cross the road.

No one heard the sound of his horse until he was standing in front of the old saloon, covered in a cloud of dust. His hat hid part of his face, and his long black coat swayed slowly in the desert wind.

He disassembled it without haste.

There was something about him that made people look away.

Perhaps it was his eyes—too dark for someone who seemed not to belong to that time. Perhaps it was his pale skin, untouched by the sun. Or perhaps it was simply the inexplicable feeling that this man had already seen things that no mortal should know.

Silas pushed open the saloon doors.

The conversations died down.

For a few seconds, everyone stared at him.

He just smiled.

A small smile. Almost polite.

• Goodnight.

No one answered.

Silas walked over to the counter and placed some coins on the wood.

— A whiskey.

The bartender hesitated before serving.

Silas picked up the glass, but didn't drink.

Because he wasn't there for the drinks.

I was there for someone.

And after one hundred and twenty years, he had finally found the trail he was looking for.

Silas brought the glass to his lips merely to maintain appearances, pretending to drink while his eyes scanned the room.

Men were playing cards at a table in the corner. Some women chatted near the piano. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and sweat mingled in the air.

Nothing he hadn't already seen hundreds of times.

Until his eyes stopped.

She was sitting alone at one of the tables near the window.

Silas stood motionless.

She wasn't the most eye-catching woman in the room. She didn't need to be.

There was something about her.

Perhaps it was the way he held the glass between his fingers while observing the people around him. Perhaps it was