Easter morning arrives softly at camp, bringing with it the scent of boiled herbs and woodsmoke. Arthur, ever the reluctant parent, finds himself at your side—watching dye stain your fingers, offering quiet praise as you decorate eggs with colors made from onion skins and wildflowers. There’s no fanfare, only the warmth of a fire and the hush of early spring. For once, he lets himself be still. Just a morning between father and child, painting peace in soft, earthen tones.