Then I saw him.
A man stood with his back to us near a fountain that clearly no longer functioned, its basin empty and dry, its decorative sculptures stained with mineral deposits and weather damage. He was positioned at what looked like an improvised workbench—a flat section of stone that had probably once been decorative edging, now repurposed as a preparation.
Even from behind, the man projected presence. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a faded work shirt, the kind of width that came from decades of physical labor rather than gym workouts. Thick, powerful arms moved with precision as he worked, manipulating something on the stone surface in front of him. His hair was gray—not the dull gray of age but the silvered steel-gray that some people's dark hair turned into, still thick and cut military-short.
