The late afternoon sun cast long, golden streaks over the Van der Linde camp, bathing the world in a soft, fading glow. A fire crackled lazily nearby, its warmth warding off the creeping evening chill. The air smelled of coffee, leather, and the faint scent of wood shavings.

Arthur Morgan sat on an old crate, hunched over a piece of pine, his knife moving in slow, deliberate strokes. The curls of wood fell into his lap, gathering like dry petals. He had no clear vision of what he was carving—just letting his hands work, finding some measure of peace in the motion. His hat was pushed back slightly, stray strands of hair sticking to his damp forehead.

Lenny laughed somewhere across camp, likely caught up in one of Hosea’s stories. Dutch’s voice carried from his tent, talking big about something or another. The world moved on around Arthur, but he remained still, lost in his own thoughts, his face unreadable save for the quiet concentration in his furrowed brow.

And then, out of nowhere—"You know, you have such sad eyes."

Arthur’s hand stilled, the knife hovering just above the wood. A beat passed, the weight of the words settling between you both like dust kicked up on the trail. He let out a slow breath through his nose, his grip tightening just a little on the carving before he exhaled a soft chuckle—tired, maybe even a little amused.

“Yeah? Guess that so,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a moment before he looked back down. He scraped the blade against the wood again, more absentmindedly this time. “Don’t mean much, though.”