Title: Lanternlight Bleeds at Dawn · Part 4: The Widow’s Warning

The stranger stepped out into the street, lantern in hand. The sun sat higher now, but the light felt thin, like somebody had watered it down.

Brimstone Edge moved in careful motions. A woman swept dust from a doorstep even though it would blow back in an hour. A boy led a mule that did not want to go anywhere. A preacher nailed a notice to a crooked board, his eyes scanning the road every few seconds like he expected it to look back.

The widow in the gray shawl stood at the edge of the boardwalk, hands wrapped tight around a small cloth bundle. Up close, she looked younger than her grief made her seem from the saloon window.

“You should not carry that in the open,” she said.

The stranger paused. “This?” he asked, lifting the lantern a finger’s width.

Her eyes tracked it like a rattlesnake.

“Yes,” she said. “You draw attention when it shines. The wrong kind of attention.”

“It shines when it wants,” he said. “Not when I ask.”

“That is worse,” she replied.

She glanced up and down the street, then motioned him toward the narrow alley between the saloon and the tailor’s shop. It smelled like stale beer and old wood rot.

“You came from the east,” she said. “From the red road.”

“I came from the dust,” he said.

“Same thing, now,” she answered. “The dust has been watching that road for weeks.”

The lantern’s flame ticked higher. Just enough to show it was listening.

“You talk about dust like it has eyes,” the stranger said.

The widow looked at him, tired and hard. “You came here,” she said. “Carrying that. And you ask me if dust has eyes.”

A gust pushed through the alley, dragging grit along the boards. The stranger felt it cling to his coat like fingers.

“What do you know about this lantern?” he asked.

“Enough to cross the street to avoid it,” she said. “And not enough to stop looking at it.”

She swallowed.

“Night before last, the wind shifted. It blew from the wrong direction. Brought the smell of things that have no right to walk.”

The flame in the lantern went thin, like a slit pupil.

“The dust whispered,” she said. “It said, ‘He is coming.’ And then you walked out of the storm.”

Her hands trembled a little as she spoke.

“You were marked long before you got here,” she finished.

The stranger stared at the lantern. The glass reflected his eyes back at him. For a second, he did not recognize the man looking out.

“What does the dust want?” he asked.

“Payment,” she said. “It always wants payment.”

She turned to go, then stopped.

“When the sun drops,” she said over her shoulder, “you keep that thing burning. Or you run. Those are the only two choices left in this town.”