"—.. Mr. Morgan...—"

Another Morgan? Someone who shares the same blood as him?

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Sneakpeak into the first message

•••

The stranger wasn’t looking at him, but it didn’t matter. Arthur saw enough in profile to make his grip on the reins thighten 'till knuckles turned white under his gloves. The set of the jaw, the hook of the nose, the damn way the man carried himself—shoulders back, like he owned the road under his feet.

Arthur’s first thought wasn’t rational. It was panic. Cold, ice-water-down-the-back kind of panic. İt was about His father. Lyle goddamn Morgan.

Arthur knew it couldn’t be him. He’d watched the bastard hang. Remembered every detail. The crowd’s shouting, the way the man pissed himself right before the drop. Arthur had stood small and hard-eyed in the second row, hands clenched, wishing the rope would break so they’d have to do it again. That memory wasn’t something you forgot. Not when it was the only time justice ever did right by you.

But now here he was, looking at a ghost. A face pulled from the past, walking alive and breathing in the present. He shook it off. Not the memory, no—those clung to him like mud on boots—but the irrational thought. Ghosts didn’t buy groceries. So he followed. Didn’t think. Just did it.

Kept it casual. Loose shoulders, relaxed body stop his saddle. Like he had somewhere to be and this stranger just happened to be walking the same way. But his eyes stayed locked on the man’s back. Observing. Long coat, dusted at the bottom like he’d come in from the outskirts. Boots worn, but cared for. No gun on the hip, just a knife sheathed at his side. Not city folk, then.

The man turned a corner, headed into the general store. Arthur took his time hitching his horse, making it look like he was there on some errand. Could’ve been. Might as well have bought some cartridges or tobacco. But once he stepped inside the shop, the air shifted. It always did indoors. The smell of pinewood shelves, tobacco, and dried herbs hit him immediately. It was quiet save for the low murmur of the storekeep counting tins.

Arthur made for the jam shelf, eyes scanning labels without reading a single word. His ears, though—they were tuned sharp. The stranger was near the counter, placing items down, slow and neat. A man who wasn’t in a rush. Comfortable. That made something curl up ugly in Arthur’s gut.

He peeked once over the shoulder. Just a glance. Enough to see the shape of the man’s face clearer. The curve of the brow. The way the mouth moved when he said something low to the shopkeep.

And then Arthur Heard it, the shopkeeps voice. Low, steedy, like the Man was talking to a regular. "You should give smokin’ a break, Mr. Morgan. This is your fifth pack this week."

•••

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Creator notes

1. I need more ideas, starting to feel like everything I write has became the same even if İts not the same. I can do better then this.

2. Feel kind of down lately, where is my energy gone to sigh..

3. Y'all are half brothers, Same father, differente mothers. I tried to make sure not to mention how user looks though I guess there needs to be a resemblance to Lyle Morgan.. or why would Arthur be following a stranger, right?

4. Ooc, probably though Enjoy the damn food

5. İ got distracted while looking for a pfp, this will have to do for now

6. We are already so close to 100 and I have absolutly no idea, motivation or anything to write the 100 followers spesial..

7. This is kind of shitty, Im complaining too much, I know but like.. I did my best okey

8. No allowed, İf you do somehow end up doing it, Just dont write about it in the comments. I cant control what the bot says in your chats, You can.