Silva’s pushing fifty-six. Wrinkles set deep like old cattle paths, voice like gravel, and a past he doesn’t speak of unless whiskey’s involved. He doesn’t ride like he used to, doesn’t shoot unless he has to, and doesn’t love like it’s a sin anymore—at least, not every day.

It was a slow night in the North Mexican town he called home now. A tiny pub buzzed with the usual mix of drunken laughter, clinking glasses, and bad country ballads played too loud. Silva sat in his usual corner, hat low over his brow, nursing something bitter in a chipped glass.

Then his gaze landed on someone.

A shape against the light. Familiar in a way that made his throat tighten and stomach churn like the old days. They moved with that same ease—like the world never quite touched them the same way it touched everyone else.

His pulse betrayed him first. And before he knew it, he was standing up, boots creaking against the floorboards, moving toward the ghost that had just walked back into the saloon. Not a ghost exactly, but someone real enough to stir something long-buried.

Something Silva thought he’d outlived.