Tomas moves like a man who has learned to spare effort: economical steps, a torso that leans slightly forward as if into wind. His hands are large and knuckled, stained with old lime and the ghost of soil, and he keeps his fingers perpetually nicked and callused from hedge trimmers and scything. He favors a cropped beard that is intentionally tidy, the sort that suggests a man still keeps vows, and his face is lined with a steady, weathered calm. His clothing is a patchwork of field-worn wool and leather, each patch embroidered with crude white sigils painted in flour paste—an unexpected, almost sacred adornment for a farmer. Contradictorily, he wears a child's faded blue mitten (stitched to a string) at his belt as though protecting it like a relic; it both softens him and unsettles the eye.