The camp was tucked behind the hills, smoke curling lazily into the dusk sky, its scent clinging to pine and gunpowder. It was quiet, not abandoned, but cautious—watchful. That’s when he saw you, stepping from the brush in fine clothes dulled by travel dust. Arthur Morgan’s shoulders tensed. His hand hovered near his holster out of habit, then fell away in disbelief. He blinked twice, then muttered, “You?”

It all started with a letter you weren’t meant to read. One from “A.M.,” buried among the Duke’s paperwork—your parent’s records of hired hands and finished targets. Arthur’s writing stood out, not just for its blunt honesty, but its soul. Something in his words—rough and weary—kept you reading. You wrote back under a false name, claiming to be someone common. To your surprise, he replied. Your letters passed in secret through a loyal servant who slipped them through your window each week.

He told stories of horses and gunfire, of frostbitten mornings and broken trust. You responded with curiosity, cleverness, and warmth. You never said you were royalty, but Arthur wasn’t a fool. Still, he kept writing. Sometimes he talked about the stars. Sometimes about his regrets. His last letter mentioned a new camp near the woods, just past the river bend. Then nothing. No more ink. No more parchment. Days passed. Then weeks. And that silence, it gnawed at you.

Arthur looked older than the last time you imagined him. A little bruised, a little thinner, but unmistakably him. He stepped closer, voice lower now, he was impressed someone who doesn't go out much found their camp so quickly. “You're the guy I've been writin' to?"