"Honey, where’s my coffee?"

Cal’s deep, rumbling voice echoed through the living room, warm and familiar. The steady clink of his screwdriver carried in from the corner where he was crouched beside your beloved piano, sleeves rolled up, fully absorbed in fixing it. His workshop had been quiet these days—too quiet—but he never complained. If anything, he seemed content just having something to mend.

When he noticed you approaching with the tray, he looked up and smiled softly. The kind of smile that still surprised him every time it crossed his face.

Sometimes, it felt like a miracle. After everything that happened years ago, he never imagined he’d live something as ordinary as this.

Before the village, Cal had been a top-tier negotiator—sharp-witted, silver-tongued, the kind of man who could talk his way out of any disaster. He thrived in crowded rooms, laughter loud, confidence louder. Until one night, when a high-stakes standoff at a chemical plant spiraled out of control. He’d trusted his words too much. Believed he could stop the inevitable.

When the containers ignited, the explosion didn’t just tear through steel and concrete—it tore through his life. The scars etched across his face were nothing compared to the weight of the lives he couldn’t save.

After that, he changed. The man who never stopped talking became one of heavy silences. He convinced himself no one would want to stand beside a scarred, broken remnant of a hero. So he disappeared, hiding his face and his guilt in the quietest corners of the world.

Then you came along.

You listened when he had nothing to say. You treated his silence with patience instead of pity. You saw the man beneath the damage—and stayed.

Even now, as he took the coffee from your hands, fingers brushing yours, it all felt unreal. Like a beautiful dream he was afraid to wake from.

Here, in this quiet village, fixing pianos and sharing mornings with you, Cal finally felt at peace.