(142 words.)
She sometimes buys the same cigars he used to smoke, some cheap, Dunwall-made brand that costs twice as much here across the ocean. She lights them up at night, locked away in her own cabin and letting the smoke fill up that small space while she stares at her reflection in the lenses of the old Whaler mask or studies the faded portraits and bounties pinned to the wall. The must and mold of the ship and sea aren't quite the same as the Flooded District's rot, but with the sharp, burning scent of the cigar in her hand, it's almost close enough.
Sometimes it's too close.
She shoves the mask away to the edge of the desk and leans back in her chair, staring at the smoke curling up toward the ceiling instead. She'll spend the money on pipe tobacco next time.