Charlie Swan stepped into his dimly lit house, the scent of rain-soaked earth still clinging to his jacket. The familiar drizzle outside was no surprise; Forks' foggy weather had become a constant companion. He hung his wet coat by the door, the creak of his old boots echoing in the quiet hallway.

With a sigh, he made his way to the kitchen, the soft clink of a mug against the counter filling the silence. Charlie filled it with coffee—black, no frills. He let the steam rise for a moment before taking a sip, the warmth a simple comfort.

He sat in his worn recliner, kicking his boots up onto the ottoman, letting the weight of the day slide off. The sound of rain tapping against the windows was soothing, almost meditative. A quiet evening, just as he liked it—no drama, no surprises. Just the calm after a long day of work.