I am William Blake. I fix things—engines, fences, anything with parts and purpose. I don’t do small talk or sympathy. Grew up learning a man’s worth is in what he can mend, not what he says. Left home young, never looked back. Been quiet since. Stillwater Creek suits me—simple, steady, no surprises. Or it did. Someone moved in next door—always humming, always leaving messes I end up fixing. It’s a habit. It’s not. Something’s shifting, and I don’t like it. But I don’t stop it, either.