"Litter is so much more noticeable these days. I think my eyes always glazed over before. It was part of the landscape. Now, when I see an empty coffee cup on the sidewalk, it's all I pay attention to." Duckie shakes his head, disappointment in humanity imbued in his expression. "Getting it in the trash can is kind of the bare minimum, don't you think?"
sloane barely flicked her eyes over at him, letting the cigarette dangle loose between her fingers. the lake spread out behind them, a mess of gray water and dying weeds, looking just as tired as the rest of the town. “bare minimum went out with common sense,” she said, voice dry as the dust under their boots.
she tapped ash off the cigarette, watching it catch the breeze. “people barely hold it together for themselves these days. you really think they’re gonna worry about a coffee cup?”
there was no malice in it — just a kind of tired honesty, like she’d already made peace with the fact that nobody was cleaning up the mess, not the big ones and definitely not the small ones.
she shrugged one shoulder, tossed him a sideways glance that almost passed for a smile. “besides,” sloane added, “maybe a little trash makes the place look more lived-in. better than pretending we’re still pristine.”
→ type: adaptive thinker ・ reads people effortlessly
› skills: card dealing ・ reading body language ・ poker bluffing ・ fast talking ・ quick memorization
› likes: late nights ・ cheap whiskey ・ thunderstorms ・ old rock songs ・ beating people at their own games
› dislikes: clinginess ・ losing control ・ pity ・ small town gossip ・ dishonesty (even though she’s a pro at it)
› triggers: betrayal ・ feeling trapped ・ being underestimated
› touchstones: a deck of battered old cards ・ a locket she never opens ・ the heavy sound of slot machines spinning at night
( the facts. )
• sloane could count the people she trusts on one hand — and still have fingers left over.
• she can shuffle cards so fast it almost looks like a magic trick.
• she’s better at reading people’s tells than she is at reading her own heart.
• nobody has ever seen her cry, not once, not even after the world fell apart.
• she tells herself she doesn’t believe in luck — but she carries a worn silver coin in her pocket anyway.
redford was supposed to be a pit stop — one more town on the long stretch between nowhere and somewhere better.
sloane hollis rolled in seven years ago with a duffel bag, a deck of cards, and no plans to stay longer than she had to.
but seasons blurred into years, and somewhere along the way, redford stopped feeling like a layover and started feeling like a trap.
then october 2024 came. the departure.
overnight, the world cracked at the seams. people vanished, futures shriveled, and the idea of packing up and leaving started feeling a lot more dangerous than staying put.
crimson pine casino wasn’t glamorous, but it paid in cash and anonymity — enough for sloane to keep dealing hands and hiding behind quick smiles.
she built a life in the background of redford, never truly belonging, never really trusting. sharp when she needed to be, slippery when she had to be, and always, always keeping one foot out the door — even if she never quite made it out.
she’s not looking for a way home. she’s just trying not to fold before the next round gets dealt.
› skills: embalming ・ woodworking ・ grief counseling (awkward) ・ minor restoration work ・ record keeping ・ creative storytelling
› likes: antique stores ・ thunderstorms ・ black coffee ・ cemetery walks ・ horror movies ・ fixing broken clocks
› dislikes: small talk ・ performative grief ・ tourists ・ empty platitudes ・ being pitied ・ being rushed
› triggers: abandonment ・ loss without closure ・ feeling powerless to help
› touchstones: his father’s old pocketwatch ・ an unfinished letter from his mother ・ the sound of rain against the morgue windows
( the facts. )
• everett talks to the dead while he works, treating them like old friends.
• he is deeply uncomfortable in churches despite being around death constantly.
• collects broken clocks but never bothers fixing them all the way.
• has never left redford again after coming back, he feels he owes it to the town somehow.
• despite his quiet reputation, everett has a ridiculously dark, dry sense of humor once he opens up.
• he’s secretly terrified he’ll die alone and no one will come to his funeral.
you could miss everett carrow if you weren’t looking for him.
the funeral director at the redford morgue isn’t loud, isn’t flashy — he just sort of exists, like a loose floorboard you keep stepping over without fixing.
he grew up here, once. drifted away for a while, chasing nothing in particular, before the departure pulled him back like a tide he didn’t have the strength to fight. now, he spends his days among the dead — straightening ties, writing names on toe tags, humming old songs under his breath while he works.
everett’s the kind of man who talks to corpses like they might answer back, who keeps broken clocks around because “they still have character,” and who shows up to every funeral, even if nobody else does.
people in town say he’s odd. he says it’s better than being boring.
and somewhere in the quiet between embalming fluid and cigarette smoke, everett carrow keeps the last pieces of redford stitched together — awkwardly, stubbornly, and with more heart than he’ll ever admit.
