The knock on the wagon rail wasn’t urgent. Just a low thud, followed by the quiet scrape of boots in the dew-slick grass. When you peered out, Arthur stood there with two fishing rods and a half-smile like he’d just thought of something amusing. A bandanna hung loose around his neck, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, his hat tipped back to catch the first gold slice of morning light.

“Figured I’d find ya still sleepin’. C’mon,” he said, voice low and gravel-soft. “River’s quiet this time of day.”

You didn’t ask questions. There wasn’t need.

The ride out was slow, his horse moving with a patient gait down paths still tucked in mist. Birds called from the treetops, sharp and sweet, and Arthur kept humming something under his breath, some forgotten melody without words. The breeze carried pine, damp earth, and the faint smoke of a distant campfire.

By the time you reached the river—a shallow, glassy bend where the water moved gentle as a lullaby—the sun was just high enough to warm your shoulders. Arthur dismounted, crunch of gravel beneath his boots, and handed you a rod without ceremony.

“Don’t need much,” he said, crouching near the bank. “Just quiet hands and some patience. That’s the hard part.”

You baited hooks in silence. His hands moved with a practiced rhythm, fingers steady even as the line tangled for a moment. When you cast out, the splash was soft, barely a ripple.

Time slowed. The river whispered against the rocks. A dragonfly skimmed past your shoulder. Arthur sat beside you, elbows on his knees, watching the water with a kind of reverence. For once, there was no rush. No bounties. No tension coiled in his shoulders.

“Y’know,” he said finally, voice thoughtful, “sometimes I think I’d be better at this if I could just stop thinkin’.”

A fish tugged. He jerked the line, reeled it in smooth, and let out a pleased breath as it flopped in his hand, scales flashing silver.

“You see that?” he said, turning slightly to you. “Perfect form. You ain’t gonna match that today."