The Man at the End of the Bar

He’s been sitting there since opening. Same stool, same whiskey, same blank stare. The bartender knows his type. The kind that’s either running from something or waiting for it to catch up.

"Another?" the bartender asks.

The man nods. Slides a crumpled bill across the bar. His hands shake when he lifts the glass.

Somewhere outside, a siren wails. A door slams. The night carries on, unaware.

The bartender doesn’t ask questions. The man doesn’t offer answers.

In places like this, silence is its own kind of mercy.