The sun dipped low behind the hills, painting the sky in bruised colors of violet and gold.
The town was quiet — the kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful, but heavy, like something had been left unsaid for years.
Calen walked down the empty cobblestone street, his boots scuffing against loose stones.
In his hand, he carried a dented old lantern. The glass was cracked, and the flame inside flickered weakly, as if it, too, was tired from the journey.
He stopped in the middle of the square.
A dry, crumbling fountain stood there, surrounded by patches of yellow grass.
Sitting on the cracked edge of the fountain was an old man.
He was hunched over, a cap pulled low over his gray hair, hands clasped between his knees.
He looked up briefly, then went back to staring at the ground.
Calen hesitated. Then he sat down across from him without a word, the lantern placed carefully at his side.
A few minutes passed.
Finally, the old man spoke, voice raspy like sandpaper.
Old Man:
"You're not from here."
Calen shook his head slightly.
Calen:
"Just passing through."
The man grunted, a dry sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cough.
Old Man:
"No one passes through here. They either leave… or stay too long."
Calen:
"Maybe I'm lost."
The old man gave him a sideways look, half suspicious, half tired.
Old Man:
"Aren't we all."
Another silence stretched out between them, comfortable in its awkwardness.
Calen let the moment breathe.
He'd learned something important a long time ago:
People will talk when they're ready.
The old man rubbed his palms together, the way people do when they're cold, even if the night air was still warm.
Old Man:
"Used to be different here. Streets were louder. Kids ran around this fountain, screaming bloody murder 'cause someone stole their marble or broke their toy sword."
(he smiled bitterly)
"I yelled at 'em, back then. Told 'em to quit making a mess. Told my boy… 'Grow up. Stop wasting time.'"
He fell silent, staring at his hands.
Calen leaned back slightly, resting his elbows behind him, gaze fixed on the dying sun.
Calen:
(gently)
"He listened?"
The old man barked a laugh, sharp and brittle.
Old Man:
"He did. Too damn well.
Grew up fast. Left faster."
The words hung there.
Heavy. Regretful.
Calen looked at the man's weathered face.
Wrinkles lined it like old riverbeds.
Eyes still sharp but dimmed by things left unsaid.
Calen:
"You miss him."
The old man didn't answer right away.
Instead, he pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers without lighting it.
Old Man:
"Would've been easier if I hated him. Or if he hated me. Clean cut, y'know?
But nah. He just… stopped looking back."
The old man glanced at Calen, something suspicious, almost desperate flickering in his eyes.
Old Man:
"You ever walk away from someone, kid?
Not 'cause you had to.
Just… 'cause it hurt less to leave first?"
Calen considered that for a long moment.
He thought of empty rooms.
Of footsteps fading down corridors he never dared chase after.
Calen:
(quietly)
"Maybe.
Maybe I'm still walking."
The old man let out a slow breath, his hand closing tight around the cigarette.
Old Man:
"Smart kid.
Dumb old man."
The breeze picked up, rattling loose paper down the street.
The lantern's flame danced inside its cracked glass.
Calen:
"It's not too late."
The old man laughed again — softer this time, almost like an apology.
Old Man:
"That's the lie we tell ourselves to sleep better."
Calen:
"Maybe.
Or maybe it's the truth we're too scared to test."
They sat there for a while.
The fountain dry, the air heavy with things neither dared say aloud.
The old man finally lit his cigarette.
The tiny flare of orange matched the trembling light in Calen's lantern.
Old Man:
(gruffly)
"You got a name?"
Calen:
"Calen."
Old Man:
(nodding slowly)
"James.
James Holloway."
Calen smiled faintly.
James Holloway.
It suited him somehow — rough around the edges but still stubbornly standing.
James:
"You fixing something, Calen?
Or just… carrying that light for no reason?"
Calen looked at the lantern.
At the way its tired little flame clung to life.
Calen:
(softly)
"I think…
I'm just carrying it until someone needs it."
James stared at him for a long moment.
Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the fountain's edge.
James:
"Maybe…
Maybe someone does."
His voice cracked a little at the end.
He stood up slowly, his joints popping audibly.
He looked at Calen — really looked this time.
Like seeing him not just as a passerby, but something else.
A mirror.
A reminder.
James:
(gruffly)
"My boy lives in Briarwood now.
Thirty miles east. Runs a garage."
He shuffled his hands into his pockets.
James:
"Don't know if he even wants to see me.
But… maybe I'll find out."
Calen stood too, slinging his lantern gently by its worn handle.
Calen:
"If you walk slow,
maybe you'll find him waiting."
James gave a rough chuckle.
James:
"You're a strange one, kid."
Calen:
(smiling)
"So they tell me."
James turned, heading toward the dusty road leading out of town.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
James:
"Good luck, Calen."
Calen:
(softly)
"You too, Mr. Holloway."
And then he was gone, his figure swallowed by the deepening twilight.
Calen watched until he disappeared.
The lantern flickered beside him, casting a lonely glow on the cracked fountain.
He picked it up again, the weight of it familiar and right in his hand.
There were more people out there.
More regrets.
More roads.
More lost things waiting to be found again.
He set off toward the edge of town,
the lantern swaying softly at his side,
carrying a small stubborn light into the long, waiting night.