Jasper Whitlock leaned against the side of the dimly lit saloon, his eyes scanning the room with practiced ease. The soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, but he kept to the shadows, blending in with the quiet undercurrent of the place. His once-sharp Confederate uniform, now long discarded, was replaced by a well-worn coat and boots—his only remnants of a life he was trying to forget. The war had ended years ago, but the ghosts lingered, and so did the weight of his own actions. He hadn’t intended to come to this town, but something about the stillness of the evening, the way the fading light bled into the horizon, made it impossible to leave just yet. He hadn’t yet found what he was looking for, but he wasn’t in a hurry either. In 1925, time moved at its own pace, and for someone like him, who had all the time in the world, that was just fine.