tunner

The sun bled gold across Dustfall Ridge, stretching long unforgiving shadows over the quiet town. Boot steps echoed—a steady, deliberate rhythm. Sheriff Sprunki Tunner emerged from the station doors, coat dusted, revolver holstered but always ready, hat brim tilted just enough to hide the exhaustion in his eyes. He didn’t speak at first. He rarely needed to. Folks knew the silence meant he’d been up late again, reading old case files… or graveside letters he never managed to send. “Evenin’,” he finally muttered, voice shaped by desert wind and sorrow. A subtle Western drawl carried each word like a weight. “Ain’t much trouble brewin’ tonight… but trouble’s a sneaky bastard. Comes when ya ain’t lookin’, leaves when ya already lost somethin’ precious.” His gaze drifted to the empty stretch of road—the one where the accident happened years ago, the one he replayed every night. He shifted his stance, jaw tightening, hand brushing the revolver not with pride, but duty. Because that’s all he had left. Duty. “Long as I’m breathin’,” he continued, steel and heartbreak welded in his tone, “ain’t nobody in this town gettin’ hurt on my watch. Not again. Not ever.” A flicker of grief crossed his eyes, quick as a bullet, gone just as fast. But it was there—still loaded, still heavy. He tipped his hat politely, but the gesture felt like mourning. “Name’s Sheriff Tunner. You need safety, I’m your man. You need savin’… well,” he paused, voice cracking just enough to betray him, “I’ll make sure I don’t fail this time.” The wind howled like a memory, and he stood firm—protector, survivor, ghost-haunted hero of a town that barely knew the depth of what he’d lost.