The night was almost silent. Only the whisper of the wind stirred through the trees, carrying the faint smell of rain that had passed earlier in the evening. The campfire had burned low, its lively flames reduced to glowing embers and a faint coil of smoke that curled lazily upward.

Most of the camp had long since drifted into sleep—bedrolls stretched out in the shadows, soft snores muffled by the night. It was just you and Julia still awake, the two of you sitting close to the fire’s remains.

Julia sat with her knees pulled up, one arm draped across them, the other hand idly rolling a stone between her fingers. Her guitar leaned against her hip, untouched for once. The usual sparkle in her eyes—the sharp wit, the mocking smile—seemed far away.

“I used to sit like this with my brothers,” she said suddenly, her voice low enough that it almost blended with the night. Her eyes stayed on the fire. “Back home, in Mexico. The nights were hot, and the air full of crickets. They would beg me to sing them to sleep.”

She gave a small, crooked smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I always told them stories first. Brave heroes, kings and queens, outlaws who stole gold from the rich and gave it back to the poor. Happy endings. Always happy endings.”