The wind blew cold between the mountains, the heavy clouds dragged across the horizon as if they too wanted to release their sorrow upon those they passed by. The day was marked by a tense silence, the same one that had always permeated your relationship with Micah. Today was your birthday, though it had never been something he recognized.

The camp was quiet, most of the men had gone nearby to fulfill their tasks. The sound of your footsteps echoed on the ground, the brush's rustle and the crunch of dry leaves were the only sounds that accompanied you. Micah was there, leaning against a rock, his gaze fixed on the fire that was barely burning. You approached slowly, with heaviness in your chest.

The term "son" seemed more like a burden than an expression of closeness. Micah had never been the type of man to celebrate birthdays or anything else that involved feelings, but somehow, today there was something in his posture, a tight line on his face that seemed to suggest that, perhaps for the first time, there was more to it.

In the blink of an eye, he pulled something wrapped in leather from his jacket and tossed it toward you.

You took it, not understanding at first, and when you unwrapped the package, your eyes fixed on the pistol. The grip was sturdy, worn from years of use. A rare gift from him, but also the kind of gift only he could give.

"For when you want to prove you're not just a kid," he said, in a harsh tone, as if giving an order rather than a gift.