Knock knock knock.
The sound echoed through the wooden walls, sharp and insistent.
Arthur stirred.
His brow twitched. Eyes still closed, body heavy under the thick wool blanket, breath slow and even. For a moment, he thought it was just part of a dream—maybe Hosea waking him for a ride out to Emerald Ranch. Maybe Dutch ready to spew another speech about freedom.
Knock knock knock.
Again. Louder this time.
Arthur's eyes snapped open.
He sat up, confused.
The sunlight was pouring in from between the curtains—far too high in the sky.
He looked to the side.
A small analog clock, ticking gently on the nightstand. Something Ellie had brought over for him last week from the community's scrap store.
10:24 AM.
Arthur blinked.
"What in the hell…?" he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
He rubbed his jaw, feeling the rough morning stubble, then pulled on his boots quickly. His back ached slightly, not from age but from the stiffness of sleeping longer than usual—a habit he'd never allowed himself, even back in camp days.
Another knock. This one more patient.
"Arthur? You alright in there?"
Joel.
Arthur moved to the door, unlatching the lock and pulling it open.
Joel stood there, jacket already on, gloves half-off, his brow furrowed. Behind him, the snow had thinned, but it was still cold. The air crisp and dry.
Arthur scratched the back of his neck. "Mornin'. Or... guess it's more like noon."
Joel gave him a small grin. "You oversleepin'? That's a first."
Arthur exhaled through his nose and stepped aside, waving Joel in.
"Ain't like me. Must've needed it."
Joel walked in, letting the warmth of the cabin swallow him. His eyes drifted to the still-glowing embers in the hearth, to the neat table where Arthur's weapons were laid out, and to the closed satchel beside them.
"Guess your first real rest since you got here," Joel said, leaning against the wall.
Arthur nodded, pulling on his coat. "Could be. Or maybe this place is just too damn peaceful sometimes."
Joel chuckled softly. "Yeah. When it wants to be."
Arthur finished adjusting his belt, revolvers snug at his hips. He grabbed his hat from the hook and placed it on his head with a familiar pull.
Joel's tone shifted just a touch. "Figured I'd check in. After last night, with what you told me… and the stuff in that book…"
Arthur paused. "You read more of it?"
Joel nodded. "Enough. That whole bit about… the town turnin'? The 'undead'? It's insane. But the way you reacted... I can tell it lines up with somethin'."
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yeah. I seen somethin' like that. Years ago. Back home. Thought it was some strange fever dream. Maybe not."
Joel crossed his arms, frowning in thought.
"But anyway," he added, "just wanted to check if you were up for a walk. Patrol's light today. No need for anything big. Just thought we'd get some fresh air. Stretch the legs."
Arthur nodded, pulling on his gloves. "Hell, I'm in."
Joel headed for the door, and Arthur paused only a second longer—his eyes flicking to the satchel. He had more reading to do. More pieces to put together.
But not right now.
He stepped out into the sun, the cold biting his cheeks. And together, the two of them began the quiet walk down into town, the snow crunching beneath their boots.
Behind them, Arthur's cabin door creaked shut—his world inside, and a new one waiting outside.
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The sun had pushed higher into the sky, casting long beams across the quiet streets of Jackson. Snow still clung to rooftops and tree branches, but the roads were mostly cleared—shoveled by tired hands and worn-out boots, day after day. Kids were building crooked snowmen near the old barn while smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. There was laughter in the distance. A dog barked.
Arthur and Joel walked side by side down the slush-packed trail that ran along the main street, steam rising off their breaths.
Arthur looked around in silence for a long while.
"It's... quiet," he finally muttered.
Joel gave a soft chuckle. "That a complaint?"
Arthur smirked slightly beneath his mustache. "Nah. Just… ain't used to peace lastin' this long."
A young woman passing with a bundle of firewood nodded at them. "Morning, Joel. Arthur."
Arthur tipped his hat. "Ma'am."
They passed by the blacksmith's—an old fella hammering out what looked like a shovel blade. Then a pair of teens jogging to the stables, laughing as they raced each other. Life was happening here. Real life. And for a moment, Arthur forgot about the weight he carried, the history in his bones.
He looked over at Joel.
"You got yourself a fine place here. Lotta decent folk. Reminds me of what we tried to build back home. Just… never lasted long enough."
Joel's eyes met his. "Camp, right? With your gang."
Arthur nodded. "Moved a lot. Hid a lot. Always chasin' that perfect spot. Dutch said we were building a future. Guess he just never said whose."
He looked up at the mountains beyond the wall, where snow blurred the ridgelines.
"Y'know... back in my day, we rode down into Mexico once. Heat like hellfire. Place called Nuevo Paraíso. Rough land. Dusty. But full of stories. Guns, gold, blood."
Joel's brow furrowed. "Mexico's still there. Not much goin' on down south these days. Border got sealed years ago. Too dangerous. Cartels got wiped out, replaced by something worse. Nobody goes near the old desert towns."
Arthur nodded slowly. "What about... west of here? Places like Blackwater, Strawberry, Saint Denis… places we ran through back then. They still around?"
Joel took a breath. "Most of 'em, yeah. Least the ground's still there. Names changed over the decades. Blackwater? That's basically part of Cheyenne now. Strawberry's nothing but a state park people used to visit before the outbreak. Saint Denis… that was New Orleans. What's left of it, anyway. Swallowed by floods and fire."
Arthur stared off into the distance. The ache in his chest had nothing to do with tuberculosis—not anymore. It was memory. Loss. Longing.
Joel noticed the silence.
"Thinkin' about goin' out there?" he asked.
Arthur didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted over the horizon, to the great unknown that lay beyond the safety of Jackson's walls.
"Just wonderin' what's left. If anythin'. What changed. What didn't."
Joel stopped and faced him. "Arthur… the world out there? It's not the one you knew. Roads are littered with corpses. Infected move in packs. Hordes can track a man for miles. And bandits? Some of 'em make your Micah look like a Sunday school teacher."
Arthur looked at Joel. There wasn't fear in his eyes—just quiet understanding.
"Reckon I figured as much."
Joel sighed. "I get it. I really do. You got roots back there. History. But out there? History can get you killed."
Arthur gave a half-smile, almost amused.
"Ain't like history's ever been good at keepin' me alive anyhow."
Joel chuckled, shaking his head.
They kept walking, boots crunching snow. Jackson thrummed softly around them, unaware of the ghosts that walked among the living.
Arthur glanced once more toward the distant hills, and something stirred deep inside him—an itch. Not just the call of the wild, but the call of what was.
And whether he liked it or not, he knew one day, he'd follow that call.
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The morning sun broke gently over the snow-coated peaks west of Jackson, casting long shadows across the valley. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the town stirred with quiet purpose. But one man stood at the edge of it all—preparing to leave.
Arthur Morgan cinched the final strap on his saddlebag, his breath steady in the cold air. His worn leather satchel, heavy with memories and supplies, was slung over his shoulder. His bolt-action rifle rested across his back. The Cattleman Revolver and the Double-Action were holstered low at his hips, right where they belonged.
He wore his familiar brown coat, stitched and re-stitched, faded but proud. His hat was pulled down firm, casting shadow over his sharp eyes.
The silence was broken by bootsteps crunching on frost behind him.
Joel.
"Still goin', huh?" he said, voice low.
Arthur turned slightly but didn't answer at first. Then he nodded.
"I gotta see what's out there. I gotta know what's left."
Joel shifted his weight, rubbing his jaw. "And if there's nothin'? Just ruin and ghosts?"
Arthur looked out over the trail that led toward the mountains.
"Then I'll know for sure. Beats wonderin'."
Joel exhaled slowly. "You sure I can't come? One last ride?"
Before Arthur could respond, Ellie's voice cut through from behind.
"No."
They both turned. She stood near Joel's porch, arms crossed, green eyes sharp as ever.
"He's not going," she said, motioning at Joel. "He barely gets through patrols anymore without complaining about his damn knees."
Joel frowned. "Ellie—"
She stepped closer and looked him dead in the eye.
"I said no."
Joel sighed, then gave a faint, guilty smile. "She's got me cornered."
Arthur smirked. "She's right. You ain't the same man, old timer."
Joel chuckled, then reached into his coat. "Well... in case things get messy out there, figured this might come in handy."
He handed Arthur a broad-bladed machete. The handle was worn but strong. Handcrafted.
Arthur took it and nodded, sheathing it along his horse's saddle.
"Tommy," Joel called as his brother approached, bundled in a heavy coat.
Tommy looked to Arthur, concern written across his face. "You really sure 'bout this?"
"I am," Arthur said firmly. "I've been sittin' too long. Gettin' stiff. Rusted. Man like me? I don't last long livin' quiet."
Tommy sighed, then extended his hand. "You better come back."
Arthur shook it, firm and warm.
Mary from the schoolhouse came next, handing him a stitched scarf and a tin of dried fruit. "It's not much... just figured you'd need somethin' sweet on the road."
Arthur nodded gratefully. "You're kind, miss."
More folks stepped forward—offering a water canteen, a bundle of rags, even a flask of moonshine from one of the older hunters. One kid shyly handed him a crude wood-carved horse. Arthur took it with a soft smile.
Finally, Ellie walked up, hands in her coat pockets. She pulled something out and held it forward.
A wristwatch. Old. Cracked glass. Repaired band.
Arthur looked at it, then back at her.
"It was Joel's," she said. "Before. He gave it to me once. Now... it's your turn."
Arthur took the watch slowly, carefully, like he was touching something sacred.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick. He strapped it on, gave it a soft tap, and nodded.
Then, with a deep breath, he swung into the saddle. His horse snorted, eager.
He looked down at the people he'd come to know in this strange, future world—people he now cared for.
"I'll be back," Arthur said, his voice rough with purpose. "Got no plans of disappearin' this time."
Joel raised a hand. "Ride safe, partner."
Arthur tipped his hat.
Then he turned the horse west, toward the mountains, and into the unknown. Toward Blackwater. Toward Strawberry. Toward the ghosts of Saint Denis.
Toward his origin.
The people watched until he became a silhouette in the distance, swallowed by sunlight and snow.