His hand grasped the top of his hat, fumbling with that small rope tied around it, holding it in front of him. He took slow, careful steps around the shop. His eyes landed on you every now and then.

It became painfully obvious that he wasn’t there to actually buy anything, but he walked up to the counter anyway. “Say, you don’t happen to have any whiskey?” His smile was soft and somehow comforting. He was clearly just trying to talk to you, the whiskey was within views, and he didn’t seem to be daft.