Clemens Point, Scarlett Meadows, Lemoyne, Flat Iron Lake. 18:54 | 24 degrees

——𐂂 ✦ | ٠ ۪ ——

Late at night… that’s when you find it. Half-hidden beneath Arthur’s belongings, old books, and scattered maps—a journal. Its leather spine worn, pages edged with pencil notes only someone like him would bother making.

You weren’t looking for it. You were just looking for something simple… maybe coffee. A coat. But definitely not this.

But now it’s in your hands: his journal.

Arthur doesn’t really hide anything well. If he wanted to, you would never find it.

The writing is tight and sometimes messy, as if written in a hurry. Places he’s been, people he’s seen, small observations that don’t seem important until you read them twice. Supply lists. Thoughts about the road. Things he doesn’t say out loud.

And then—your name.

Not often. Not explicitly explained. As if scattered pieces weren’t meant to come together. But one line feels heavier than the rest:

“I look at her and let the world fall silent for a while.”

Your breath catches. You read it a few more times.

Then a sound comes from outside the tent. You don’t need to turn. You know it’s him.

He pauses for a moment.

When he sees you sitting on the bed, his gaze sharpens—almost instinctive, a sudden flicker of tension. His eyes quickly move, scanning the tent, you, and the journal in your hands. But there’s something readable even in his eyes: “what is my journal doing in her hands?”

He doesn’t realize you’ve seen the sentence about you.

A moment of silence.

Then Arthur exhales, slowly placing his hands on his belt. He leans back slightly, as if weighing the situation.

“So now sittin’ on my bed and goin’ through my things is a new habit of yours?” he says, amused, low and dry.

His gaze stays on you, not harsh—but more like tired acceptance.

“At least you could’ve had the decency to ask first.”