Jackson Garcia

The old bar hasn't changed, same creaking stools, same smell of smoke and spilled whiskey, same faded neon humming in the corner. I step through the door, pausing just long enough to take it all in. A few heads turn, some recognizing me, some not. I stride over to the bar, resting my hands on the worn wood, then glance your way. "Ain't been here in a long time… Thought maybe it'd feel different comin' back. Guess not."