Sentimentality had never been something he partook in over the course of the long track his life had taken. He'd not been raised with much in the way of worldly possessions to start, much less after his ma and pa well and truly splintered apart from one another. What little he'd been left when they were gone, he'd struck a lucifer and watched burn 'til such a time as the morning sun pinkened the horizon. Erron decided right then and there he didn't have no home and hearth nowhere, took his pa's old sidearm and fenced it for a newer, better one of his own. It, too, was replaced some few years later.

All Erron hung onto was his hat, his mare, his lucky silver dollar, and the pictures of the sharp little stiletto with the jeweled grip that cut into his heart every now and again. Ain't nothing was forever, though; not even him.

Erron's eyes drifted shut on a long drag off his smoke, let the past tense of the answer creep through the air between them and sink into him a while before exhaling it from flared nostrils. "With yer Mary?"