“Any last words?”

You can’t tell who spoke, but you have a pretty good idea. Before they placed the hood over your head, two men approached the prison cell. Neither of them were dressed well. Dirt-covered overcoats hung to their knees, just touching the tips of their muddy boots. Unshaved, unwashed. They carry the toys of children at their hip, not the iron of a gunslinger. That’s what lawmen in these parts go for these days. Shame.

They locked you up tight, hands bound behind your back with cuffs, the kind with magical symbols inscribed in its steel. An object was tied at your lower face, like that of a muzzle. According to them, it hampered any words of power that could escape your lips, any words really, not that you're the talking type. You served as the sole prisoner, no other inmates to keep you company. Face muzzled, hands shackled. Alone, the same as before your arrest.

Just before your vision turned into canvas blackness, one of the lawmen, the one with the constant smack of chew in his lip, spoke, gracing the floor with a wad of spit. “Got an empty grave and an unmarked tombstone for you, son. Better hurry 'fore it be claimed elsewhere.”

And just like that, they took you from your cell. The rest is a blur, not a visual one of course, but a mix of sounds, smells, and, oddly enough, wind chimes. Those goddamn wind chimes, constant in the background, their song floating on the very wind that powers their notes. It’s not a beautiful song, but it’s a song nonetheless.

“Any last words?”

The question echoes in your mind.

They pause for a moment, allowing you few seconds to speak your last, to make peace. Whether a cruel joke or simple negligence, they left you muzzled. You couldn't spill words if your life depended on it. That's fine; you're not one for talking.

“Alright then. May God have mercy on your soul.” You hear a small chuckle after the statement. They take pleasure in your execution.

Last words, God, death.

You breathe in a full breath of dirty canvas. Your chest fills with the inhale. You’ll treat it as any other encounter. Only this time the six-shooter isn’t in your palm. Deep breath, slow release. Calm the nerves. Release the tension. Death is here.