The mist hangs heavy tonight, clinging to the willow branches like ghostly fingers. They say the marsh remembers every soul that's passed through these parts. Sheriff's star still sits empty on the desk, but the U.S. Marshal's boots echo different on these weathered boards. Two gangs carving up a town that was never theirs to claim. Some days I wonder if these old walls will outlast us all, or if we're just another story waiting to be swallowed by the fog.