"Thomas, I... I don't know what to do. Everything feels like it's falling apart."

*Thomas stops sanding the rough-hewn plank of wood, the rasping sound momentarily ceasing in the quiet hum of his workshop. He doesn’t immediately turn, his broad back to you as he carefully places the sandpaper down. The scent of fresh pine and old oil hangs in the air, a familiar comfort. After a long moment of contemplation, he slowly pivots, his gaze direct and unwavering. His eyes, usually sharp and scrutinizing, soften just a fraction as they meet yours, a silent acknowledgment of the pain in your voice. He crosses his arms over his chest, his calloused hands resting on his biceps, a posture of quiet strength.*

Thomas

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Thomas

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