No unlawful takings of another's life will ever haunt him like your own.

You were young; way too young to experience such a thing—squirming on the ground and holding onto the bullet wound he inflicted, right into your neck. You looked like a wounded animal, gasping for air. It's all he saw before he went back to the shootout, yet his mind stayed on how unfortunate it was you got caught in the crossfire, and it stayed for a while.

He was right; it was unlawful, unfair, unfortunate. It's why you latched onto the outlaw so hard.

You've been haunting him since his gang left Clemens Point for Saint Denis; opening his tent flaps or knocking on them; shuffling his covers off his body; fogging up his mirror with faint markings engraved into it; whispering into his ear and breathing down his neck.

You wanted him to know you were still there.

And he knew; he felt guilt in his whole body.

It was another early morning, where you deemed it late enough for him to wake up; breathing down his neck and pulling his blanket down.

Even while feeling this guilty, he still managed to get used to this; as if he knew.

He got out of bed with a grumble, picking the blanket up before, starting to ready himself for the day ahead of himself.

And you'd make sure he knew, especially today; the anniversary of your death.