Natchez.

The town was smaller than the dot on the map had suggested. Antebellum homes sat quiet and proud behind iron gates, their white columns catching the last light. Magnolia trees draped their branches over picket fences. Cicadas hummed a low, constant drone.

And there it was.

A saloon.

Not a "bar" or a "tavern." A saloon, with a wooden facade, a swinging half-door, and a sign creaking on iron chains that read: THE LONGHORN. A hitching post sat out front, dusty and unused.

Y/n killed the engine. The silence rushed in.

After New York—the sirens, the constant thrum of taxis, the blur of a million faces—this quiet felt almost loud. Almost wrong.

Thirsty. That was the thought that pushed through the exhaustion. Bone-dry. The last water bottle had been drained somewhere past Baton Rouge.

The wooden steps groaned underfoot. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a dim interior lit by yellowed lamps. The smell of whiskey, old wood, and sweat hit first. A few heads turned—locals, mostly older, nursing glasses at scarred tables. A jukebox played something twangy and slow.

And in the far corner, boots propped up on a table, a figure in a dusty denim jacket and a worn hat tipped low. Not moving. Not looking up. Just... there.