A lone truck rumbled past, kicking up another cloud of brown dust. The bell above the diner door jingled as Old Man Hendricks shuffled out, coffee in hand, squinting against the glare.

It was the kind of sleepy Tuesday that made you forget the world existed past the town limits. The kind where the biggest news was Mildred's cat getting stuck in the oak tree again.

Until a figure emerged from the hardware store.

He was tall. Lean. Wore a crisp, long-sleeved button-up despite the heat, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Nice jeans. Pointed-toe boots—snakeskin, by the look of them. A belt with a buckle that caught the sun.

He pulled a plain brown cap lower over his eyes and ducked his head, stepping off the porch and heading down the sidewalk at an easy, measured pace.

Something about the way he moved—loose-limbed, deliberate—felt familiar. Like a song you couldn't quite name but knew the words to.