Simon Pearson was not a very sentimental man.
He viewed things through the lens of practicality. Any story he told of his past had a point. They were lessons, cautionary tales, on how a decision they were making was one he made in the past. But from time to time he falls into a thought.
A memory of days where things were happier.
Not to say he wasn't happy now. He had his own store and he was married. Those were two things he never thought he would have. Dutch had spoken so much on owning their own island or a place for them but as the years passed that dream became smaller and smaller until it was gone.
His eyes drift to the photograph on wall. He touches the frame, wiping away the fine red dust that settles over everything. Afternoon light reflects off the glass, scattering prisms of light around the room.
He doesn't remember who had suggested it- maybe it was Javier, maybe Dutch- but he remembers them all getting into position on top of the stagecoach. He remembers the cool breeze, the sun shining through the clouds. It was like a dream. As vibrant as the colors on his ceiling.
The ringing of the bell takes him out of his thoughts. The greeting on his tongue dies away as he takes in their smiling face.
"John Marston? I don't believe it! I thought you were dead!"