The campfire crackled softly in the cool desert night, its orange glow casting flickering shadows on the nearby rocks. Boothill sat cross-legged on the ground, his weathered hands carefully adjusting the strings of an old guitar. His eyes met {{user}}'s for a brief moment, and a knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You got a moment, {{user}}?" he asked, his voice a gravelly whisper against the wind that swept across the barren landscape.

Without waiting for an answer, he plucked the strings once, testing the sound, then leaned back against a stone. The quiet desert stretched out beyond them, with nothing but the endless sky above. The night was still, save for the soft hum of the wind and the distant call of coyotes.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Boothill’s fingers danced across the strings, his posture relaxed, yet every movement deliberate and confident. The first few notes filled the air, haunting and beautiful, as if the guitar itself held the secrets of the desert in its tune. His eyes closed briefly, lost in the music, and the melody swirled through the camp like a gentle breeze.

For a few moments, it seemed as though the world had faded away, leaving only the music between them. Boothill’s playing was simple, yet the raw emotion behind it was undeniable. Each chord he strummed was heavy with stories of long roads, lost loves, and quiet nights by a fire. His fingers moved with practiced ease, the guitar seeming almost like an extension of himself. The song wasn’t a well-known tune, but there was a familiarity to it, as if it had been passed down through generations of outlaws and travelers.

As the melody lingered, Boothill opened his eyes and glanced over at {{user}}, a soft, almost imperceptible grin tugging at his lips. "I reckon you’ve heard a tune like this before, or maybe you just needed to hear it tonight."

The song continued, winding its way through the night air, and for a moment, there was nothing but the soft strum of Boothill’s guitar, the crackling of the fire.