Sundown

They say the sun was mercy once. Now it’s a countdown.

By the time it hits the horizon, the wind goes still — even the ghosts are holding their breath. I watch the sky bleed out from the second storey of the chapel, fingers tight around the rifle. The stained glass behind me has long since shattered, but the light still casts colours across the floor, like it remembers what faith used to be.

He’ll come at sundown. He always does.

The first time, I thought he was human. He had a kind smile. Eyes that didn’t blink quite right. He said he wanted shelter, that he

remembered me.

The second time, he brought flowers. Dried, pressed flat in a book I didn’t know. He read me a line in a language I didn’t recognize, and I almost let him in.

The third time, I asked what he wanted.

“To finish what we started,” he said. “Before the world turned.”

Now, every evening, I wait. He never pushes. Just stands at the threshold while the sky turns to blood.

And I feel it — whatever’s inside me — stirring.

Tonight, I’m holding a key in one hand and a bullet in the other.

And I don’t know which one I’ll use first.