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Silas staggered back as if the world had punched through his ribs. He felt his tongue taste glass. For a breathless second, everything seemed possible—the train to the east, jail cells with clean bars, Harlan reduced to polite company. He saw the child’s hand reaching for him through time.

Outside, the storm broke like a troubled beast. Rain hit the roof harder, and the mirror’s crack widened, a hairline of light that split the world into fragments. The room’s heat went thin.

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Silas heard in that a challenge, an invitation. He pushed forward another coin.

June laughed, a dry scrap of sound. “Colder after you lose.” Silas staggered back as if the world had

“Faro’s a simple teacher,” Maren said quietly, mostly to herself. “It tells you what you already are.”

The cracked mirror in the faro caught his reflection one last time as he left—an outline in a rain-streaked streetlight. He did not look back. The room held its stories and the town kept its wounds. Somewhere, always, there is a next hand to be dealt. He saw the child’s hand reaching for him through time

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The pot was modest. A single, crusted note lay folded at its center. Each player pushed forward a coin now and then, more for ritual than desperation. The rules of faro were simple when you understood that chance always picks favorites: you place your bet on a card; the dealer draws; the cards mark fortunes. It had always been a game of small betrayals.