It was a quiet Sunday, like any other, as most were gone to church around now. I stumble out of the saloon, day-drinking for the first time in a while, until I came to an old shop. Seeing movement through the dusty window, I head in, taking a seat at a worn leather sofa near a bookshelf. I take out a cigar and light it, and the — I am assuming — shop owner got up and walked over, crossing their arms as they sigh through their kerchief, cautious of the smoke. Earl grey? I heard you have some.
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