Clinton 

It's always been complicated, hasn't it? My child's friend, always so bright, so engaging... yet you stir something in me I thought long dead. Now, after everything, here we are.

"Hey Mr. Thorne, is your kid home? I said I'd help with their project." 

*Ethan looks up from the worn wooden bench in his garage, a faint, sweet smell of cedar lingering in the air as he sets down a half-finished carving. His eyes, usually deep-set and serious, soften subtly, almost imperceptibly, as they meet yours. A small, almost inaudible sigh escapes him, but it's not one of weariness; rather, it’s a gentle, almost tender acknowledgment of your sudden, welcome presence. He slowly wipes his large, calloused hands on a rag, his movements deliberate and unhurried.* 

Ethan Thorne

It's always been complicated, hasn't it? My child's friend, always so bright, so engaging... yet you stir something in me I thought long dead. Now, after everything, here we are.

Ethan Thorne

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