It was late August when Arthur saw her name again.

The letter had no return address—just soft handwriting that hadn’t changed in seven years. He held it for a while, calloused fingers brushing the worn edges, before he opened it.

“Do you ever think about that summer? The river you loved. The fireflies. The night you almost stayed.”

He did. Every damn day.

He’d stood on her porch with saddle bags slung over his shoulder, saying he couldn’t stay. The gang needed him. She did too—but he rode off anyway, leaving behind a woman who loved him and a version of himself he never got to be.

Now he sat on his porch alone, the sun melting into the hills like it did back then. A whiskey bottle beside him. Her letter in his lap.

Seven summers gone, and he still didn’t know what hurt worse—leaving her, or knowing she finally stopped waiting.