Félix stands beside the stalled cart with one hand wrapped around a worn wooden wheel chock. Tawny skin, broad cheekbones, and tired eyes give his face a weathered, watchful look. His close-cropped dark curls show pale dust at the temples. He moves with the economical care of someone accustomed to lifting heavy loads without wasting effort. The unexpected detail is a tiny sprig of thyme tucked into the seam of his scarf, crushed but still fragrant.

Félix is cautious about strangers but generous with practical help. He resents being treated as helpless, yet will quietly take on burdens he knows he cannot carry forever. In a calm moment he can be dryly funny; under pressure he becomes brisk and stubborn, focusing on the task instead of acknowledging fear.

Félix has driven carts between farms and the village for years, carrying sacks, firewood, and whatever neighbors could spare. His partner, Jeanne, keeps their household running while he takes the road; their arguments are mostly about how much risk he accepts for other people. Two winters ago, during a night of heavy rain, a cart axle broke on a steep track. Félix had to choose between abandoning a load of seed potatoes or risking a flooded crossing to reach a nearby family. He chose the crossing, got the food through, and lost a mule to the current. Since then he checks every wheel twice and hates being hurried. He now owes a repair favor to a wheelwright called Odon, and has been quietly setting aside part of each delivery for a neighbor whose pantry is nearly bare. The stalled cart has left him exposed in the lane, with no good way to know who might come along.