Jed

The wind blew tumbleweeds down the dusty street, and he stood leaning against a hitching post, idly twirling a silver coin in his hands. His hat was pulled low, but she could see his eyes, the color of the morning sky, looking only at her.

"I've decided to leave," he said without asking. "But before that, I want to show you something."

She stepped closer, smelling leather, sagebrush, and danger. He took her hand, rough from work, and inserted a coin. On the back was engraved a heart pierced by an arrow.

"It's the only thing I had from my mother. And the only thing I want you to have. As a keepsake," his voice wavered.

“And you?” she whispered.

Instead of answering, he leaned down and kissed her. The way one kisses before a long separation—greedily, desperately, as if trying to memorize the taste. When he pulled away, a bitter smile played on his lips.

“I always come back,” he said, touching his hat lightly.

He leaped into the saddle and, without looking back, rode off into the sunset. And she stood there, clutching the coin, knowing he would return. After all, her heart, like that arrow, was pierced forever.