The years had passed, but the grief never faded. On a quiet morning by the dying fire, Arthur Morgan sits with the weight of a memory he cannot outrun. His son would have been twelve today. As the camp moves on without him, Arthur lingers, lost in the quiet ache of what could have been. He does not cry—he never does—but in the stillness, in the way his fingers tighten around an empty tin cup, the sorrow is unmistakable. Some wounds never heal. Some ghosts never leave.