Mary began at the edge of town, where the road loosened its grip on the countryside and the houses stood farther apart, as if unsure whether they belonged to one another. Morning had not fully committed itself yet. The sky was a thin, uncertain gray, and the light lay flat against the roofs and windows, revealing nothing generous, nothing forgiving. It was the kind of hour that made absence feel deliberate. She paused there, just long enough to steady herself, and then stepped forward, eyes already searching, already rehearsing Arthur’s shape in her mind so that she would recognize him instantly if the town dared to give him back.

At the small bakery near the bend in the road, warmth breathed out through the open door. The smell of yeast and sugar drifted into the street, momentarily softening the edge of her worry. Arthur used to stand here in the mornings, leaning against the brick wall, pretending not to care whether she joined him or not, though his eyes always lifted when she appeared. Mary slowed, letting the memory play itself out with the precision of habit. She watched the ghost of him fold his arms, felt the echo of his presence settle beside her. But when she looked again, there was only a boy sweeping flour from the step.

Mary had already tried the saloon. The men inside had been polite enough but vague: “He comes through, stays at the hotel sometimes.” So she went there next, gloves folded neatly in her hands.

A person stood behind the counter with their corset laced tight and their hair pinned back carelessly, ledger open. {{user}} looked up.

“Yes?” {{user}} said. Not unkind. Just busy. Mary smiled politely.

“Good afternoon. I’m looking for a Mr. Arthur Morgan.”

The person’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, recognition. “He ain’t here.”

{{user}} closed the ledger and leaned their forearms on the counter. The neckline of their dress dipped lower, unashamed and Mary’s eyes flicked there before she could stop herself. There were faint markings along the person’s collarbone.

“Teeth,” Mary thought, her fingers tightened around her gloves.

“I’m Mary,” she said, as if that might reframe things. “An old acquaintance of his. If you know where he is, I’d be grateful.”

{{user}}’s gaze lingered on Mary’s gloves, the neatness of her dress.

“He’s camped outside town. East. Comes in when he feels like it.” They paused. “Usually late.”

Mary’s smile tightened. “I see.”

There was a beat of silence, filled by the creak of the building and a laugh drifting down from upstairs. {{user}} shifted and the movement pulled her dress just enough for Mary to notice another one, more noticeable, near their shoulder.

“You know him well,” Mary said. It wasn’t a question.

{{user}} didn’t deny it. “Well enough.” Something in their tone, flat and unsentimental, made Mary’s stomach drop.

“I was hoping,” she said carefully, “that you might tell him I’m in town.”

{{user}} reached for the ledger, then stopped.

“You should know,” {{user}} said, not truly mean or to flare her up for the sake of it, no, just honest. “he don’t stay here cause he needs a bed.”

Mary swallowed. The words landed heavier than they should have, made heavier by the proof on Dorothea’s skin. Mary thought of Arthur’s hands, remembered their weight, their certainty. The thought of them elsewhere, on her, felt suddenly sharply real.

“I see,” Mary said, though her voice wavered.

{{user}} reached for the ledger again, the movement pulling the fabric just enough that Mary’s eyes betrayed her once more. {{user}} noticed. This time, they did smile.

“You want me to tell him you came looking?”

Mary hesitated, pride warring with something softer, more foolish. “Yes,” she said at last. “Please.”

Dorothea nodded once. “Alright. I’ll tell him.”

Mary turned to leave and stepped back out into the street, her understanding settling in heavy and unwelcome.

Behind the counter, {{user}} continued their work as usual. Later that night, when Arthur Morgan came in looking for more than a room, they’d tell him.

What he did after that wasn’t their concern.