The Wistful Saga

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2026-08-23 01:48:22 -

The Wistful Saga

I counted the stitches in the leather strap of my holster as I waited for the post rider. Fourteen. The thread had frayed at the third knot, a sign of wear that no amount of oil could fix. I was thirty-two years old, and my hands were steady, but my mind was not. It was November, 1892, and the air in the Red Rock outpost tasted of pine sap and old iron. I wanted one thing: to know if the man I...

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