The fire had burned down to its last embers, the coffee in Arthur’s cup long gone cold. He sat with his back to the rest of camp, shoulders hunched, hat tugged low enough to shadow the sharp lines of his face. He had been like this all morning—silent, withdrawn, his hands idly moving over the rim of the tin cup though he never lifted it to drink. The others had left him alone. Whether out of respect or because they simply knew better, he couldn’t say.

The sun had climbed higher when you finally sat beside him. You didn’t say anything. You never did, not right away.

For a long moment, he didn’t acknowledge you, only exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers still curled around the tin cup like he might break it if he held on any tighter. Then, finally—softly, like it wasn’t meant to be heard—he said, “It’s his birthday today.”

“Would’ve been twelve.” He shifted slightly, just enough that the leather of his jacket creaked against itself. His eyes were distant, unfocused, fixed somewhere beyond the trees. “Never got to see him grow into that.”

Arthur let out a breath, one hand dragging absently over the stubble along his jaw. His voice was rough, lower than usual when he spoke again. “Reckon he’d hate me, if he’d lived. Growin’ up knowin’ what I am.” His thumb brushed over the knotted scar on his knuckle, a nervous habit he had never quite shaken. “What I’ve done.”

The wind picked up slightly, carrying with it the distant hum of the river, the sound of the horses shifting in their stalls. The sky had turned the color of warm slate, sun hidden behind thickening clouds.

Arthur blinked slowly, jaw tightening as he finally looked over at you, something unreadable in his expression. There was something tired in his eyes, something worn down and threadbare, something that stretched far beyond words.

And then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he exhaled softly, the barest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Funny,” he murmured. “Don’t feel like twelve years at all.”