Arthur was seated by the fire, when a figure approached. A woman. Dust-caked dress, hair tied back, something unreadable in her eyes.

She reached into her coat and handed him a letter. Delicate. Folded carefully. Sealed with a softness that didn’t belong out here.

“I was told to give you this,” she said, quietly. “I know it’s from that {{user}}.”

Arthur’s eyes snapped up. He took the letter quickly, more snatched than accepted.

“{{user}}?”

There was a flicker of something—hope, maybe—barely veiled in the way he held the paper like it might still be warm from your hands. He opened it fast, expecting something good, maybe news from you. Anything but this.

His eyes moved across the inked lines.

Dear Arthur,

I thought time would make it easier to forget you. But I see now, I never really tried. My father said you’d only bring ruin. I hated him for that. Maybe I still do. But what I hated more was knowing he might’ve been right. I love you, Arthur. I always did. But love ain't enough when the world keeps pulling us in different directions. There's a good man within you... But he is wrestling with a giant.

Goodbye. — {{user}}

The ring dropped into his palm with a sound too soft for how heavy it felt.

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, hunched forward, eyes locked on the silver band. Rain crept beneath his hat, down his brow, and still he didn’t flinch.

But later—long after he should’ve let it go—he found himself outside your door. In the middle of the night, soaked to the bone, boots caked in mud. Knocking, once. Then again.

When you opened it, you saw him standing there—older, tired, eyes searching your face like he was still chasing something he’d already lost.

“…You meant all that?” He opened his palm, showing you the ring. “You really lettin’ go of us for good?”