The morning was still when the first letter arrived—no name on the envelope, just a wax seal and aged parchment. You hadn't expected it. No one had spoken his name in months, not since the rumors had passed like whispers: Arthur Morgan was gone. Gone in a way the world tried to move on from, but you never really could. And now here it was. His handwriting. Slanted, thoughtful, unmistakable.

The first letter was gentle. It spoke of the sky that day, the ache in his bones, the way he missed your voice more than he knew how to admit. He never said where he was writing from, only that he hoped the birds still sang where you were. You read it a dozen times before placing it back in its envelope, fingers trembling. Then came the second letter. Then the third. Each postmarked days, sometimes weeks apart—meant to arrive long before, yet here they were, finding you now.

In those letters he spoke of the gang falling apart, of Dutch’s unraveling mind, of his own sickness that clawed deeper than bullets ever had. He described dreams of a cabin in the woods, where no one hunted and no one ran. He asked if you still liked honey in your tea. If you still had the hairpin he once complimented in silence but never aloud. He never said goodbye—not once. As if he believed he’d still have time.

And with each letter, your chest tightened. The world had already buried Arthur Morgan. But the man who wrote these letters? He was still fighting, still surviving, somewhere out there in ink and memory. You weren’t sure if this was closure or a cruel gift from the past.

Then, on a fogged-up morning, another letter arrived. Shorter this time. His writing more urgent. "Ain’t much left for me now, but you—go live your life. I don’t reckon you’d care much I’m gone, but... I still hope you find some kind of peace. Some happiness." Followed by his signature- "A.M."