Jed sighed, eyeing Charlie's ragged expression and the slump of his shoulders, weighed down by more than just the burden of his crimes.
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"Charlie," he said softly but firmly, "I'm not gonna shoot you, and I ain't got the strength left in me to even try to stop ya, much as I'd like to."
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Charlie met his gaze, unflinching. "Uncle Jed, I'm doing all this… to be remembered. This cancer's gonna take me sooner or later, you know that. And I… I don't want to just die and disappear. I want folks to know my name. Remember me."
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Jed's brows knitted together, a mixture of frustration and sadness. "All for fame? Charlie, you're lettin' this idea of 'bein' known' eat away at you like the cancer itself. Fame ain't nothin' but dust in the wind once you're gone. You think this life—what you're doin'—it's gonna lead you anywhere good? You ain't goin' to heaven with a trail of bodies behind ya, I can tell ya that."
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"Maybe," Charlie muttered, his gaze fixed on the floor. "But what else is left for me? I ain't got much time, Uncle Jed, and if all I'm remembered for is bein' a no-good robber… well, that'll do."
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He turned and trudged up the creaking staircase, each step heavy with the weight of his choices. Jed shook his head, the words he'd said echoing hollowly in his own ears as he watched Charlie disappear down the hall.
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Upstairs, Charlie flopped onto his bed, staring up at the peeling ceiling, the old wood above him telling stories of lives lived and lost. A weariness settled over him, deeper than any he'd felt before. For a moment, he let his eyes drift shut, his mind racing, grappling with guilt and ambition.
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The morning light seeped through the cracked blinds when he finally blinked awake. He glanced at the clock—nearly eleven. Rubbing his face, he dragged himself to the small, worn-down bathroom, splashed water on his face, and looked up into the dusty mirror. His own reflection stared back—haunted eyes, hollow cheeks. Somewhere in his mind, a whisper spoke up, taunting, relentless: Look at you. Ugly, pitiful son of a bitch. Killing, robbing—maybe Uncle Jed's right. Maybe this whole thing is just wrong…
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But even as the doubt crept in, a stubborn pride surfaced, a voice that bit back at the shame. But I'm in too deep to quit now. There ain't no way to turn back. Besides… I'd rather go down fighting than wait around for this cancer to get me.
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"Boy!" came a holler from downstairs.
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Charlie jolted, grabbing his hat and stumbling out of the bathroom. He bounded down the stairs, the rough edges of the railing scraping his hand as he caught himself.
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Jed was at the base of the stairs, arms crossed, a look of exasperation fixed on his face. "You ain't thinkin' of runnin' off again to rob no bank, are ya?"
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Charlie held his hands up, half in jest, half in defense. "Not right now, I swear! Why'd you think that?"
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"Good," Jed said with a gruff nod. "Cuz there's work needs doin' out here. Fences to mend, crops to water. We're still a farm here, boy, even if you've taken to some godforsaken path."
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Charlie scratched his head, feeling a strange relief. "Well, if it'll keep ya happy, Uncle Jed, I reckon I can pick up a rake or shovel today. Why not?"
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As they stepped out together into the golden light of the morning, Jed tossed him a shovel. "Charlie," he said, his voice a bit softer, "you got choices. Just… think on 'em, before it's too late. This here life—it don't gotta be all fire and ashes, ya know?"
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Charlie held the shovel, squinting into the horizon, the weight of the earth under his boots a stark contrast to the fleeting thrill of his other life.
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As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a hot, orange glow over the land, Charlie took a deep breath and got to work on his chores. He grabbed a shovel and began digging shallow trenches in the dry soil, beads of sweat forming along his brow. Each trench had to be just so, deep enough to catch the water and keep it from running off, yet shallow enough not to drown the crops. With every strike of the shovel, dirt flew, revealing the roots beneath, tangling and dusty. Once satisfied with the trenches, Charlie moved to transplanting soil, spreading fresh earth over the fields to nourish the crops, checking every inch for pebbles, weeds, and anything that might choke out life.
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Next, he moved to the animals—Red junglefowl, sheep, goats, chickens, and pigs, each creature with its own personality and quirks. The sheep were skittish, trotting away the second he got too close, while the goats met him head-on, their hungry eyes fixated on the feed bucket. Charlie herded them with a calm patience, his voice steady, calling each one as if he'd known them all his life. He poured feed in the troughs, chuckling at the pigs jostling for space, snorting and squealing in excitement.
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After setting the animals to graze, he walked over to the broken fence, picking up his hammer and a handful of nails. He examined each section, testing its sturdiness, replacing broken planks, hammering the nails deep into the wood, making sure it would hold even against the strongest storm. With each nail, a rhythmic sound filled the quiet farm, and somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped, its melody mingling with the hard clang of metal against wood.
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Once satisfied, Charlie grabbed a bucket and trudged to the river, dipping it in and letting the cool water slosh over the edges. The trip to the crops was long and the sun beat down on him hard, but he didn't complain. He poured the water carefully over the plants, their leaves catching the droplets like precious jewels. Then back to the river he went, filling his bucket again and again, each time feeling the weight strain his shoulders. On the fifth trip, just as he reached the edge of the field, he noticed a figure standing by the path.
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The man was old, with tattered, dirty clothes that looked like they hadn't been washed in years. His skin was sun-weathered, covered in dust, and his gold-yellow teeth gleamed whenever he flashed a crooked grin. Charlie could smell him long before he got within speaking distance—a mix of sweat, earth, and something sour. The man's head was bald, shining under the sunlight, with patches of stubble that made him look wilder than anything Charlie had seen around these parts.
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Charlie held up a hand. "Hey, sir, I'm gonna need you to back the hell up. I don't know what you're after, but I ain't got anything for you."
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The old man stopped, hands raised in a gesture of peace, and his voice came out raspy yet oddly gentle. "No, no, boy… I don't want nothin' from ya. Only a bit of your time, that's all. You're gonna want to hear what I got to say, trust me."
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Charlie shifted his weight, still holding the bucket, not letting his guard down. "Look, I don't have money to spare, if that's what you're after. So whatever you're sellin', you can just keep movin'."
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The man chuckled softly, a sound more like a cough. "Boy, I don't want your money. Just want you to listen for a spell, to an old man's tale. Maybe it'll do ya some good." His eyes, despite the dirt and grime covering his face, sparkled with an odd wisdom, as if he held secrets that could change the world.
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Charlie sighed, setting down his bucket. "Fine. Make it quick. What's this story of yours?"
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The man stepped closer, his voice lowering to a whisper, as if sharing a secret meant only for Charlie's ears. "There's a crystal… a magic one. But it's been broken into fifteen pieces, scattered all across this land. Each piece hidden in a different corner of the country, and beyond. But if you manage to gather 'em all, boy… they say you'll be granted a wish. One wish, for anything your heart desires."
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Charlie raised an eyebrow, half-believing, half-doubting. "And how would a man like me go about findin' these pieces?"
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The old man reached into his tattered coat and pulled out a crumpled, faded map, handing it to Charlie. The paper was worn, the ink fading, but clear enough for Charlie to make out locations, landmarks, paths drawn with a shaky hand. He looked back at the man, skeptical. "This map—it shows where they are?"
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"Only one," the man replied, his voice a quiet murmur, almost a sigh. "One's south of here, in Mexico. But others… you'll have to find out as you go. I've told others about it too, so you're not the only one with this knowledge. If you're brave enough, you'll seek it. If not… well, I suppose you can let this ol' tale fade away."
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Charlie glanced down at the map, the promise of the unknown tugging at something deep inside him. When he looked back up, the man had begun to fade, as if he were nothing more than a ghostly mirage.
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"Wait!" Charlie called out. "How do you know all this? Why are you tellin' me?"
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The man's form flickered, his voice echoing softly, "I've lived a long life, boy. Seen things most men only dream of. Go on, now. Good luck…"
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And then, he was gone, vanished as if he had never been there at all. Charlie stood there, map in hand, questions burning in his mind, with nothing but the wind as his answer.
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