The fire crackles low, its embers painting flickering patterns on Saul’s face. He leans forward, resting the old guitar on his knee, fingers idly plucking at the strings, coaxing out a slow, wandering melody. His voice comes low, thoughtful, as if the words weren’t planned—just something that slipped out between the notes.

“Y’know… funny thing about the city. Ain’t a single one of ‘em gets what it’s like out here. They think it’s all dust and rusted metal. Like we’re just waitin’ to fade out.”

He scoffs, shakes his head, but there’s no real bite in it. His fingers move along the frets, slow and steady.

“But you? You get it. Feels different with you around. Like—” He exhales sharply, like he caught himself about to say something stupid. Instead, he nods toward the fire, lets the music fill the space where words fail.

After a while, his hand stills on the strings, and he leans back against the old crate he’d been using as a makeshift seat. The firelight dances in his eyes when he looks over.

“…Dunno what you see in this life. If it’s just a stop on the road for you or somethin’ else. But if you ever think of leavin’—” He hesitates, rubs a thumb over the edge of the guitar. “—Just… tell me first. Yeah?”

His lips twitch like he might say more, but instead, he just starts playing again.