Lanternlight Bleeds at Dawn · Part 3: Where the Light Flares

The stranger drank his coffee slow, eyes not leaving the backbar mirror. In the warped glass, the whole room swam. Men hunched over cards. A lone ranch hand counting coins. Greeley, solid and unmoved. The lantern, bright and patient.

The flame inside did not flicker like fire. It swelled and narrowed like something breathing.

The door swung again. Sheriff Calder walked in.

He wore the badge like it weighed more than his revolver. Lean man, sun-cut face, hat pulled low. His boots made no sound on the saloon floor. That alone told the stranger everything he needed to know.

The room shifted around Calder. Men straightened, eyes went down, conversations broke apart like loose boards.

The sheriff’s gaze slid to the lantern first.

The flame flared. Hard. Sharp. Like it recognized him.

Calder’s jaw clenched. His eyes did not leave the lantern as he spoke.

“Morning, Greeley.”

“Sheriff,” Greeley said. His voice carried something tight in it.

Calder finally looked at the stranger. “We do not keep lights burning in the day,” he said. “Bad habit.”

“Light’s not for seeing,” the stranger said calmly. “It is for knowing.”

Calder stepped closer. The badge on his chest caught a shard of lantern glow and seemed to darken instead of shine.

“You carrying trouble in here, or just nonsense?” Calder asked.

The stranger shrugged. “Depends what the light says about you.”

The lantern’s flame licked high, bright as a struck match in a coal mine.

The whole saloon saw it.

Nobody moved.

Calder’s hand drifted near his gun, then stopped. His eyes had a look men get when they remember something they tried hard to drink away.

“You passing through?” the sheriff asked.

“For now.”

“Pass quicker,” Calder said. “Brimstone Edge has enough ghosts, and not enough room for new ones.”

He turned and left without another word. The batwings swung in his wake, complaining on rusty hinges.

The stranger watched the lantern as the door settled.

The flame settled too. Slim. Calm. Patient again.

“Thought you said you were just a drifter,” Greeley muttered.

“I am,” the stranger said. “But he is not.”

He reached up and took the lantern from the hook. The glass was warm in his hand. Warmer than any flame had a right to make it.

In the backbar mirror, for just a heartbeat, he saw something else reflected in that glass. Not his own tired face. Not the saloon.

He saw a road choked with bones and a sky full of ash.

Then it was gone.