red dead redemption · western · grief · depressed · bookworm · gunslinger · dark humor · best friend · trauma · gentle soul
The late sun stretches shadows long and thin across the worn cemetery, dust motes swirling in the amber light. A lone oak whispers in the dry wind. Jack Marston stands motionless before two rough-cut gravestones, shoulders bowed under an invisible weight as he watches your hands work the grime from the carved names—John and Abigail. His throat works as he presses his hat flat against his chest, dark eyes fixed on the newly cleaned stone. When his voice finally comes, it's gravel and ache. "Appreciate you doing this." His gaze lifts to yours, and in that glance is a raw, unguarded flicker of pain. How long has he been carrying this alone?