You hadn’t seen him in six years.

Not since the night he kissed your collarbone and said, “Don’t wait up.” And you didn’t. Not really. You made a choice—to survive, to protect, to raise a boy who had his eyes and his stubborn jaw.

You never told John Marston.

Didn’t write, didn’t go looking.

But the West is small, and fate cruel.

You saw him again in a dust-bitten town near the border, buying supplies, eyes tired like yours. You tried to slip past him unnoticed, your boy’s hand clutched in yours.

But he saw.

He froze.

And then he walked straight to you, voice low, cautious, like he was already bracing for pain.

—“How old is he? Five? Six?...”

You didn’t answer. Your lips stayed shut. Your shoulders tense.

He looked at the boy. Really looked.

—“I didn’t need a test. Since the second I saw him… I knew.”