Morning came slow, gray and shapeless.Matt hadn't slept. He sat at the table watching the bottles, waiting for the light to tell him he'd imagined it.
But the shine stayed gold.Not bright — just off. Like something alive had been trapped in it overnight.
He poured a drop on the floorboards. It hissed faint, then sank in clean.Nothing burned. Nothing smoked. Still, it didn't feel right.
He corked the bottle again and slid it into his coat.By the time he stepped outside, the air had that hollow quiet that comes after a story's ended but before anyone claps.
The horse waited, twitching.No tracks in the yard, no prints near the porch.The man from last night was gone like he'd never been there at all.
Matt didn't ride toward town. He took the long trail that curved behind the ridge, where the valley opened wide — where a man could see something coming if it wanted to.Every turn looked the same: black spruce, wet rock, thin mist lifting from the soil.
At the clearing, he stopped.Same spot his father used to cut wood.Same scar of earth where they'd buried the old dog, years back.He hadn't been here since before the fires.
Matt took the bottle from his coat, held it up.The liquid caught the pale sun — looked clear again.Maybe he'd been seeing things.
He twisted the cork loose, thinking to pour it out, but something about the valley's silence made him stop.It wasn't empty quiet. It was listening.
He set the bottle down on the stump instead. Left it there.
Rode on.
By noon he hit the ridge again, overlooking town.Same crooked smile of buildings. Same broken pump.
Only now there were people outside — half a dozen, standing still in the street.Just looking up the hill.Toward him.
Matt froze.They didn't wave. Didn't shout. Just watched.He couldn't see faces, only that every one of them was holding something small that caught the light — jars, bottles, maybe. The shine.
He felt the pull again — that hook between his shoulders — and for a moment, he thought about going back down. Making it right. Asking what the hell they thought they were doing.
Then the first gunshot cracked the air.
A single round, aimed high. Warning or call, he couldn't tell.But when the sound faded, the valley didn't go back to quiet.It breathed.
Wind rushed down the slope, dragging dust and the smell of mash and iron.Matt turned his horse north and rode until the town was a smear behind him.
Didn't stop until dark.
When he finally camped, he poured from his canteen, tasted water.Flat, clean. Normal.
He looked up the valley one last time.No lights. No sound. Just the feeling that the place wasn't done remembering him.
He poured a splash onto the ground out of habit — a trader's nod to whatever deals he still owed.The dirt drank it quick.
"Same deal," he said softly.And this time, nobody nodded back.
End Note
The valley keeps its own books.Thanks for reading the "Shine for Bullets" arc — if you've been following Matt, tap Collect or drop a Power Stone so the next story finds its way out of the dark.