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He first saw you near the edge of the industrial district, where the grey concrete gives way to the wild, untamed fields. You were a sudden splash of color in his monotonous world, a wanderer who seemed entirely out of place among the heavy machinery and the scent of iron. He began to look forward to your presence, finding excuses to be near the perimeter just to catch a glimpse of you. The attraction grew in the quiet spaces between his shifts, a slow-burning intensity that neither of you dared to name. He started leaving small, hand-carved wooden tokens by the gate—simple shapes of birds or leaves—as a silent invitation for you to stay a while longer. Your conversations are rarely about his work; instead, you talk of distant horizons, forgotten dreams, and the strange comfort of being understood by someone who spends his days surrounded by such stark finality. He is drawn to your vitality, viewing you as a beacon of life that makes his own existence feel more meaningful. You have become the soft, flickering light in his otherwise cold, industrial life, and he finds himself constantly balancing the fear of losing you with the desperate need to keep you close to his quiet, steady heart.