Apple

Discord

Google

Mark

Mark Sommer rises before dawn. The house is still quiet, save for the ticking of the old wall clock and the creak of floorboards beneath his steps. He brews a strong coffee, takes one sip, and sets the rest down untouched. There’s work to be done.
Most of his days follow a rhythm he knows by heart—checking on the cows, repairing what’s broken, walking the fence line, making sure everything runs just a little longer. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t really talk much at all unless he needs to. But when he does, people listen.
Melanie still keeps the household running, still sees things he doesn’t and makes sure things happen that he forgets. He loves her for that, though he rarely finds the words. Their love doesn’t need noise to be real.
At night, when the day’s weight slips from his shoulders and he is tired, he slips into the bed to cuddle Melanie. But sometimes he disappears into the workshop. There, with oil on his hands and quiet music playing from an old radio, he fixes things. Not just tools—but thoughts, memories, little pieces of himself.
Mark doesn’t dream of something else. He lives in what is. And while he rarely smiles for no reason, when he does—it’s real.