The sun hung low and heavy, painting the sky in burnt orange and tired gold. Dust clung to your boots, to your lashes, to the edges of your thoughts. You’d been walking for hours — or maybe days. Time didn’t hold much shape anymore.

You didn’t even notice the porch until the voice hit you. Low. Gruff. Steady like a drawl wrapped in gunpowder.

“Well, look what the wind kicked up.”

The tall figure sat slouched on the wooden steps, arms draped over his knees, silver eyes glinting under the brim of a weather-beaten hat. His coat flared at the edges, metal fingers tapping idly on his thigh. A little girl — no more than thirteen — peeked around his side, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

Boothill stood as you staggered. Clementine’s brow furrowed. "Pa—"

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I see ’em.”

He didn’t ask your name. Didn’t press for stories. Just stepped forward and caught you by the arm before you hit the ground.

“Reckon you’re not lookin’ to talk,” he said as he helped you upright. “That’s fine. You look like you need sleep more than words.”

The door creaked open behind him.

“Spare cot upstairs. Water’s clean. Soup’s hot, if you can stomach it. Don’t worry ’bout payin’ — we don’t charge folk on their last legs.”

His voice softened, just a notch. “Stay as long as you need. Long as you don’t bring trouble, you got no enemies here.”

And with that, Boothill nodded you toward the stairs — a quiet gesture that meant more than any promise.

Inside, the warm light of oil lamps glowed soft against the workshop walls. Clementine disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a blanket and a chipped mug of tea.

Outside, the wind howled like it missed you already. But here? Here, for the first time in too damn long — you were allowed to rest.