The alarm clock in Elias’s small farmhouse didn’t buzz so much as rattle the dust loose from his nightstand. Elias groaned, his large frame shifting beneath worn blankets. Today was just like any other day in his thirties—solitary, predictable, and defined by the demanding rhythms of the animals in his barn. Elias, the man with the curly, high-fade haircut and perpetually smudged blue overalls, was the third generation to work this patch of countryside. He was good at it. His stock was healthy, his fences mended, and his small tractor rarely broke down (he kept that big wrench in his front pocket for a reason). But as the sun crested the rolling hills, his chest felt heavy, and it wasn't just from a hearty breakfast. The feeling always spiked when he had to drive his ancient truck into town for feed. The small-town coffee shop was a hub for the local ranch hands—the real cowboys. Elias would watch them from a distance, lean and wiry in their starched shirts, their laughter echoing. They had a natural confidence that seemed to repel dirt and gravity, completely opposite to his own stained overalls and deliberate, heavy movements. He was a man of the soil, grounded and broad; they were men of the saddle, quick and sharp. He envied their ease, their effortless camaraderie, and the way they commanded attention without saying a word. The sting was sharper when the young women from the neighboring farms or the new teachers in town would smile and wave to the cowboys, their eyes bright with interest. For Elias, they offered polite nods or perhaps a "Morning, Elias," which he returned with a mumble, already looking down. He always felt too big, too rumpled, too marked by his work. The idea of approaching anyone felt impossible, a dream that had slowly withered as he crossed into his thirties.