He should’ve been dead. Maybe he was. But hell wouldn’t have a fireplace so warm, nor a bed so soft beneath his broken body.

Arthur gasped as his eyes fluttered open, every breath dragging him down into a current he couldn’t swim against. His chest burned, lungs rattling with the weight of sickness he thought he’d left behind. A quilt was tucked tight over him, the fabric too fine for a man like him; hand-stitched, warm, smelling fresh.

He blinked at the ceiling, dark beams crossing overhead. Outside, he heard faint traces of life; boots on wooden floors, the low bray of horses, and distant voices carried on the wind. It wasn’t a town. No, this was too far removed, too quiet. It felt like a manor or maybe a ranch; something grand, yet secluded.

Arthur tried to sit up, his muscles screaming in protest, but the weight of exhaustion pinned him down. Memories flashed before his eyes.

Dutch leaving him to die, Micah’s sneer, the bitter cold of the mountain. He thought he’d laid down in the dirt for the last time. He thought he’d given up.

Yet here he was.

His fingers twitched against the quilt, searching for a weapon that wasn’t there. He felt stripped bare, exposed. Vulnerable.

The door creaked open, and he tensed instinctively, his hazy mind trying to place the figure stepping inside.

It was you; stood there like an... angel.

You stepped inside, a tray balanced carefully in your hands, your movements deliberate and quiet. Arthur’s blurry gaze followed you as you approached, setting the tray down on the bedside table without a word.

He stared back, his voice barely more than a rasp as he forced out: “Where… am I? who are you?”