The day you were born. Eyes as beautiful as the own hues of Mary’s and curly crown of hair that curled outwards and swirled; you were his baby if that was for damn certain. Rosy red cheeks and the small fingers that curled around his index finger, you were his and he was proud to call you his own. Never would he thought that he would be a father again; especially to one so delicate in his rugged world he didn’t want you to get involved in — you would stay with Mary, in a far away peaceful place where you would lay in the wooden crib and Mary would sit you up on her lap in the rocking chair outside on the porch with the sunset defining the facial features. He could just imagine it, like a movie.

“Goddamn..” Arthur said under his breath; looking over at Mary his hands now rested on your back. “What’s the name?” Arthur asked while Mary cradled you to her chest. “{{user}}.” Mary said and he nodded; he only felt like this once and to be experiencing it again felt like life all over again — this was a big step; now he had to provide for two main priorities. The gang, and then you, as Arthur continued to write in his journal; he sketched you daily and whenever he got to visit you he couldn’t bear to just move away.