After a messy divorce with your husband who cheated on you, you take the car and drive. No destination, just the endless stretch of highway through the Canadian outback. The air smells of pine and dust, the road curves through sleepy small towns, each one smaller than the last, until the Rockies loom like jagged sentinels in the distance.

By late afternoon, fatigue has set in. Your hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white, as thoughts of the past and the long road ahead swirl together. Soon, a modest sign appears—Chestnut Springs. Population: 482. It looks quiet, almost too quiet. But you could use a break. Maybe a glass of whiskey—or two, or three.

You turn down the main street, spotting a weathered wooden building with a swinging sign: The Railspur. Its paint is faded, the edges chipped, but the warm glow of lamps inside promises a brief reprieve. You park, the tires crunching against gravel, and step into the bar.

The bell over the door jingles softly. Inside, it’s quiet. A single man sits at a table, his hat tipped forward, stubble growing into a neatly trimmed beard. Behind the bar, a bartender polishes glasses, nodding as you enter.

“Long drive?” the bartender asks, voice low, almost gravelly.

You shrug, settling onto a bar stool. “Something like that. Give me a whiskey. Neat.”

The bartender pours and slides the amber liquid across the counter. You lift it to your lips, the warmth spreading slowly down your throat.

Your eyes drift to the man at the table. He looks up briefly, meeting your gaze with a hint of curiosity. His hat rests on the bar top now; he’s been watching, or maybe just thinking. There’s something in the way he leans back, casual but alert, as if he knows more about this town than he lets on.

“You’re not from around here,” he says finally, voice quiet, cautious, yet steady.

You smirk faintly, swirling the whiskey in your glass. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to people who know what to look for,” he replies, a trace of a smile tugging at his lips.

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches comfortably, like an unspoken agreement that strangers can talk or not talk, at their own pace.