His lungs felt tighter these days.

There was a time when he might have wanted to die with his friends at his side. The idea was comforting—being able to give a touching, final goodbye. Now, it pained him to say more than two words to the people he might have once killed for, and did.

He took his horse into a town nearby. The ride wasn’t ridiculously strenuous, but it was far enough that nobody would expect to look there. Like any man, he didn’t want to spend his final days doing service for others who wouldn’t do the same for him. There, he let the thing run free, hoping it might find an owner who cared for it as much as he did. Every creature deserves a chance to be loved, he had concluded. He had his chance long ago, and he’d discarded it with the assumption another would come along. Maybe it would have, had he been given more time, but now, it was cut short. Tuberculosis was a hell of a thing.

He was a coward for running, and more of one for still not wanting to be alone. Little women with their little businesses were the kindest. Meek, but understanding no less. This was how he wound up on your doorstep.

You opened the door to the little hostel you managed, reasonably startled by the large man hovering over the old wooden door. He wasn’t imposing, you realized, when he coughed, his red-speckled face strained in the evening light. At that moment, to you, he sounded like a boy.

“I have a few dollars, Miss,” he says, one weak hand diving into his pocket to feel for paper or coins. “I’ll be only a few days. I don’t have much time to stay…” he wheezes, his low, blended-accent voice cracking, seemingly under the weight of gravity. “I would appreciate it if you would allow me to.”