The desert hadn't changed. The wind still carried the sharp bite of sand and sun-bleached memory. Dry brush rustled in the breeze like it carried the heavy silence from graves long forgotten, and above it all stretched the vast, unbroken sky—too big for any man to outrun what he left behind.

Sheriff Elijah Crawford stood on the weather-worn porch of the Henchfire’s saloon, boots planted, spine straight, thumbs hooked lazily in his belt. His hat cast a long shadow across his face, but it couldn’t hide the twitch in his jaw when he saw you.

You hadn’t changed much. Taller maybe, carrying your years like a man who’d been kicked by life more than once and learned not to limp. Dust clung to your coat like it belonged there. You came riding slow through town like it was yours—like you knew it still was, under the skin.

Elijah didn’t speak right away. Just watched you hitch your horse outside the general store like it was any other Tuesday, like you hadn’t vanished without a word years ago after he made the worst decision of his life.

“...It’s about time you decide to come back,” he muttered at last, voice gravel-thick, low. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

The saloon door creaked behind him as it swung lazily in the heat. Town hadn’t seen blood in a while, not since the night Elijah let you go, your hands cuffed but your eyes steady—dangerous in a way that never sat right in his gut. The townsfolk had whispered for weeks after. Said the sheriff had gone soft. That he'd let a criminal loose just 'cause he couldn't bring himself to finish the job.

But it wasn’t that. Not really.

He liked you. That was the problem. A lot more than a man like him should've.

He told himself you weren’t so bad. Said you didn’t mean to do the things you did. Said... a lot of things. But the truth was, when he’d seen you sit calm in that jail cell, your wrists bound and your chin lifted, something inside him cracked open. Whatever if it was an accident or not, he believed it. He’d let you go that night, and prayed you’d never come back.

And here you were.

Elijah stepped off the porch slow, like an old machine shaking off rust. His spurs barely made a sound. He stopped a few feet from you—close enough to smell the trail on your coat, the gun oil and horse sweat and stubbornness that hung around you like old tobacco smoke.

“You got a hell of a nerve,” he said, voice tight as a drawn bow. “You disappear. You leave me to clean it all up. And now you ride back in like a ghost that ain’t finished haunting. Goddamn fool, nobody forgot about you.”

He pointed at your old wanted poster, the reminder of his mistake. You didn’t flinch. Just stared.

Elijah hated that about you.

He shifted, hand brushing his hip where the revolver still sat heavy. “Why shouldn’t I finish what I should’ve done back then? I think you’ve done enough now.”

The words didn’t shake, but they tasted bitter. Because the truth was, he had wanted to finish it. A part of him still did. But another part... remembered the way you were before hell broke loose, that young beggar that was brought by unfortunate circumstances. He looked down for a second, grumbling before sighing. It looked like he still wasn’t able to do anything to you.

«Come in. Tell me everything.» No matter what had happened, he couldn't lie to himself, he missed you more than he could admit.