Cole rode into the ruins slow.
Not cautious.
Measured.
The place had once been a waystop—fuel, water, shade for men who still believed roads went both directions. Now it was just bones. A concrete pad cracked into plates. A canopy slumped like it had given up pretending. Wind moved through it and made a sound like cards being shuffled by someone who didn't care who was watching.
Cole stopped at the edge.
Dusty went first.
The dog's nose stayed low. His tail didn't wag. Didn't tuck. Just steady, cutting side to side, reading a story the ground didn't want told.
Cole felt it too.
Recent.
Not hot. Not fresh.
But not settled.
He dismounted and let the mule stand. The animal didn't like the place. Shifted weight. Snorted once. Cole loosened the reins enough to make it feel like a suggestion instead of an order.
The air smelled wrong.
Not rot.
Not blood.
Old smoke. Old oil. And something faint beneath it—soap. Cheap. The kind caravans used to pretend they were clean.
Cole crossed the pad.
Bootprints showed in the dust where shade still held it. Three sets. One heavy. One lighter. One that dragged a little at the heel, like someone tired or injured or just done pretending they weren't.
Dusty stopped near the collapsed counter.
Sat.
Stared.
Cole followed his gaze.
Something sat on the concrete shelf where a cash register had once lived.
Small.
Out of place.
Cole didn't touch it right away.
He looked around first. Checked lines of sight. Counted the places a rifle could hide and decided none of them felt right for an ambush. This wasn't a trap.
It was a message.
He stepped closer.
It was a piece of glass.
Blue.
Not bright. Not clean. Sun-worn at the edges. Smoothed the way only time and hands could smooth something sharp.
Cole knew it the moment he saw it.
His daughter's.
She'd pulled it from a river once and declared it treasure. Said it looked like water pretending to be solid. Kept it on the shelf by the sink with other things the world hadn't earned back yet.
Cole didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
He reached out and picked it up.
It was warm.
Not from sun.
From having been held.
The House did not speak.
That was worse.
Dusty made a low sound—not a growl. Not a whine. Just acknowledgment. Like the dog understood that something had moved sideways without permission.
Cole closed his fingers around the glass.
Someone had been here.
Someone had carried this.
And then, for reasons Cole didn't like imagining, had set it down where he would find it.
Not hidden.
Not thrown away.
Placed.
He scanned the rest of the ruin with new eyes.
Near the back wall, scuffed into the dust with the toe of a boot, was a symbol. Half-formed. Almost erased by wind.
A spade.
Not clean.
Not sharp.
Just enough to recognize if you already knew what to look for.
Cole exhaled through his nose.
"So," he said quietly. "That's how you want it."
He moved on.
The far side of the waystop opened into a shallow wash. Water had cut through once, long ago, then given up. A fire pit sat there, stones blackened, ash scattered thin. Someone had cooked recently. The smell lingered—meat, but not wild. Preserved. Jerky.
Caravan food.
Cole crouched and sifted ash between his fingers.
Cold.
He straightened and followed the wash until it spilled into open land again. There, half-hidden behind a low rise, he found the cart tracks. Two wheels. Narrow gauge. Pulled light, then heavier.
They'd left in a hurry.
He didn't follow.
Not yet.
Instead, he climbed the rise and sat where he could see the waystop from above.
Time passed.
Dusty lay beside him, chin on paws, eyes half-lidded but never closed.
After a while, voices drifted up.
Not close.
Not meant for him.
Two men walked into the ruin from the west. Not armed heavy. Not sneaking. One carried a bundle. The other limped slightly.
Cole listened.
"…told you we should've burned it," the limping one said.
"And draw attention?" the other replied. "You want Dealers sniffing around?"
Cole's jaw tightened.
Dealers.
The men moved closer to the counter.
One of them stopped short.
"The hell is that?"
The other leaned in. "Glass."
They were quiet for a moment.
"That from the job?"
"Don't know. Didn't see it before."
They stood there, uncertainty thickening.
Cole waited.
"Leave it," the first man said finally. "Not ours."
"Not ours," the second echoed, like saying it twice made it safer.
They moved on.
Cole watched them go until the land swallowed them.
So.
Someone had paid.
Someone had cleaned up just enough.
And someone—someone else—had left the glass behind.
Not the killers.
Not the House.
A third hand.
Cole slid down the rise and continued east.
By dusk, he reached a dry culvert that offered shelter from wind and sightlines from three sides. He made camp there without fire. Ate cold. Drank careful.
The Ace of Spades stayed cold against his ribs.
That night, sleep came in pieces.
He dreamed of footsteps he couldn't hear and hands that took things gently, like that made it better.
He woke before dawn with Dusty stiff beside him.
Not alarmed.
Listening.
Cole rolled onto an elbow.
Across the open ground, a figure stood at the edge of sight.
Not close enough to read.
Not far enough to be imagined.
Just a silhouette against thinning dark.
Cole didn't reach for the revolver.
Neither did the figure.
They stood there for a count of ten.
Then the figure stepped back.
Gone.
No sound.
No tracks when Cole checked at first light.
But something had been there.
Watching.
Waiting.
By midmorning, the House finally cleared its throat.
Text bled into Cole's vision without ceremony.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // OBSERVATION NOTEUNRELATED ACTORS DETECTEDNO ADJUSTMENT APPLIED
Cole snorted once.
"Sure," he said.
Unrelated.
The glass weighed in his pocket.
East pulled harder now.
Not like before.
Sharper.
Someone else had touched his past.
And the House, for once, had not been the first to notice.
That meant the game was wider than he'd thought.
And someone was already moving pieces ahead of him.
Cole mounted up.
Dusty trotted forward.
Behind them, the ruin went quiet again.
But it remembered.
And so did he.