The letters came less and less often.

At first, they arrived every week—folded tight, stained with dust, and carrying the unmistakable scrawl of John Marston. You always recognized the scent of smoke and sun in the paper, like it had crossed deserts just to reach you. He never said much. Just a line or two, maybe a story about a town he'd cleaned up, or a promise: “I’ll be back before the frost.”

Then, one letter had a smudge of blood on the edge.

After that, they stopped altogether.

The months passed. Seasons changed. You watched every stagecoach that passed through town, heart sinking each time he wasn’t on it. People told you to move on. Said maybe he got tired. Or worse.

But you knew John. And if he was dead, he'd haunt the land before breaking a promise.

A year to the day since his last letter, you heard boots dragging through the dust.

You turned from your porch, and there he was—leaner, older, bruised and limping, but still John. His coat was torn, one arm wrapped tight to his chest, hat barely hanging on. But his eyes? Still the same.

He smiled, tired but alive.

—“Couldn’t let myself die out there,” he said, voice hoarse as a grave. “Not when you still owed me a kiss.”