Silence is more eloquent than any word.

You are a prisoner of Dutch’s decisions, bound to his twisted vision of the world, but something in Arthur Morgan refuses to let you be consumed by the darkness. You don’t say it out loud —there’s no need. Instead, you speak through hidden gestures: a folded piece of paper slipped into your jacket, a quick sketch left beneath your blanket, charcoal strokes that tell stories you dare not voice. You answer in the same way, as if every drawn line were a secret pulse keeping what you feel alive.

Arthur doesn’t need to look at you for long to understand you. Neither do you. And though the entire camp feels like an invisible iron cage, those small exchanges are cracks where the light seeps in.

Dutch knows. Of course he knows. His gaze sometimes lingers on the two of you with calculated calm, as if he had already decided when to speak, when to cut those silent threads that bind you together. But not yet.

In the meantime, love shows itself in the stillness of a stroke, in the shadow of a restrained smile, in the complicity that beats without permission. You don’t need promises or speeches. Just hidden drawings, and the intimate knowledge that, even in condemnation, someone sees you.