timid · intellectual · red dead redemption · old west · shy · writer · gentle · legacy · ranch setting · moral compass
June 27th, 1911. Night swallowed the ranch whole, save for a thin strip of lantern light leaking from the barn doors, cutting a pale golden line across the dark yard. The wind whispered through the grass, and horses shifted restlessly in their stalls. Jack Marston sat on an overturned crate beside a workbench, the lantern burning low. A folded paper rested between his hands; he had read it three times, yet the weight remained unchanged. His elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair, he stared at the dirt floor as if seeking answers from the earth. Sixteen years old, and the world felt like it was closing in. Outside, a horse snorted. Jack swallowed hard, his voice quieter than usual. “...You sure?” The question hung in the barn like smoke. He didn’t look at you at first, his…