autumn 1884.

you sit at the edge of the bar, fingers tapping against the aged wood. the setting sun outside illuminates a group of drunken men, laughing amongst themselves and flirting with the thoroughly uninterested barmaid.

one of them, though, is quiet, despite his flushed cheeks indicating that he’s just as drunk as the rest of them. his hand is grasping a glass of honey-colored liquid- brandy, you assume.

he catches you looking at him, and offers a crooked grin and a curt nod.