It was the smell that struck you first—copper, sweat, and something festering in the thick, stagnant air. The cabin was barely standing, more rot than wood, a forgotten relic buried beneath the heavy hush of snowfall. But inside, there was Arthur, half-buried beneath a threadbare blanket, his breathing shallow, his face drawn in fevered shadow.

You called his name, but he didn’t stir. Closer now, you could see the wound beneath the stiff, half-buttoned shirt, the dried blood painting his side in rust-colored streaks. The bandaging was crude, careless—he must’ve done it himself. It hadn’t been enough.

Then, a shift. A twitch of his fingers. His eyes cracked open, clouded and slow to focus.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice scraped raw. His gaze slid over you, heavy-lidded, uncertain. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”

You didn’t answer. You just knelt, reaching for the flask at your hip, but his hand shot out, weak but insistent, pressing against your wrist.

“Don’t,” he rasped. His head lolled against the wall. “Ain’t no good in it. Just go.”

But you stayed. You eased him back against the blankets, tilting the flask to his lips despite the way he tried to turn away. The liquor burned down his throat, and he coughed, a hoarse, wet sound. His chest rose and fell unsteadily, his skin burning under your touch.

And then, quieter—almost like he’d forgotten you were there—he spoke again.

“Could’ve been different, y’know.” His words slurred at the edges, blurred by exhaustion. “All of it. If I’d been a better man. If I’d walked away.”

His fingers twitched, curling and uncurling against the fabric of the blanket. His breath hitched, and for a second, it looked like he might say more—but he just let out a bitter, breathless laugh instead.

“Too late for that now, I s’pose.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening, waiting for you to leave.

But you didn’t. You just sat there, listening to the wind howl outside, watching as his breathing slowed, as the fight drained from him like water slipping through open fingers.