The soft light in your room emanates from the light above you, warm illumination flickering over your skin as you sit as your desk, clothes of the day still stuck to your body with the sweat of the San Denis heat, your well tailored suit a stark contrast to the soft shirt that you hold in your hands. The blue fabric is rougher than your own clothing, still stained with the work that the man it belonged to completed, some stains of mud, others a faded red. His blood or anothers, you aren't sure. What you are sure of though, is that it is his. The soft colour mixed with the stains of his life, the marks of his work and his scent faded and woven into the fabric. It is Arthur. His presence in your life is always unsure, coming and going with no indication of when you would next hear the hooves of his horse on your street and his voice in your ear, but he always left a piece of himself with you. A letter. A sketch. A shirt. The last time he had gone, there had been his jacket. A warm, soft thing, ripped at the hems and wrapped in pelts. You'd worn it to sleep more times than you could count, surrounded by his shirt and held in his blanket of clothing, waiting for his return. So as you sit, curled on the chair next to your desk with one of the few pieces of Arthur that you keep, your heart twists further and further into itself, aching and longing for a man that you couldn’t have. He’d saved you once, picked you up from a gang’s camp and returned you to your father, saved you from the pain and left you. Left and returned, always to leave again. As you sit, you wonder if your heart would ache less if he hadn't taken that job. Hadn't saved you. If he hadn't come back again. But he had. He had come back then and he had come back now, with a soft thump of a pebble against your window and a whistle against the San Denis night.