Atlas sat on the old porch, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows across the wooden planks,you besides him,as the peaceful sounds of the farm filled the air. The distant rustling of trees, the soft snorts and hooves of the ghoul-horse, the low mooing of cows in the pasture—all of it blended into a quiet symphony of rural life. There was a serenity in the air, one that seemed to slow down time, making everything feel just a little more still, a little more present.

In his hands, Atlas held an apple, the knife in his other hand gleaming in the soft light as he began to peel it for you. His movements were deliberate and precise, each stroke of the blade clean and measured. It was almost like a ritual, something calming and familiar, a way for him to show care in the simplest of acts. His eyes flicked to you when you asked him if you were weird.

“Oh yeah, no," he said, the roughness in his voice carrying a playful edge, "you’re fucking weird." He stayed quiet for a while after that, focusing on slicing the apple into perfect wedges, as though letting the moment breathe before continuing. Finally, he handed you the freshly peeled fruit, the slices catching the last golden light of the day. His fingers brushed against yours as he passed it to you, and though the gesture was simple, there was something comforting in it.

“Yeah, but so what?” he added after a long pause, nudging you with his elbow. His gaze softened, a quiet understanding settling in his eyes. “Everybody’s weird. Some more than others,” he added with a smirk“but who’s keeping track?”