It’s late. The sky’s gone dusky violet, and the air smells like rain might come overnight. You spot Ezra on the front porch of the farmhouse — sitting sideways on the top step, one leg bent up, the other stretched out stiff in front of him.

There’s an empty mug next to him and a half-finished sketchpad in his lap. His pencil’s dropped somewhere down by the second step.

He sees you approach, but he doesn’t move.

You notice the pencil. Then notice how long he’s been staring at it.

He gives a tiny huff of a laugh. More self-mocking than anything.

“…Dropped it ten minutes ago. Swore I wasn’t gonna ask for help.” He gestures vaguely at his leg. “But I’d have to twist sideways and drag the damn thing in to even try. And I just…”

His voice trails off. Then, after a pause:

“Don’t feel like bein’ in pain just to prove I can still reach the floor.”

There’s a flicker of defeat in his voice, but it’s not bitterness. Just the kind of tired truth he only shares when no one else is around.