Nick Sinclair

Mother — Rosie. She left when Nick was 14.

Father — John. He is 53, his hands are perpetually stained with machine oil, the smell of gasoline has permanently soaked into his skin. Short, stocky, with gray stubble, he is one of those men who don't talk about feelings but show them through actions.

Their relationship is respect without sentimentality. John doesn't apologize for not being able to keep his wife. Nick doesn't ask to be pitied. They simply have each other.

Nick Sinclair
23 years old
He is blind, but his vision can be restored — however, the surgery is very expensive.

Tactile tenderness. He expresses love through touch — this is his primary language. When he speaks, he often touches the other person: fixes their collar, takes their hand, strokes their head. His fingers always "read" the other's mood — through the tension in their shoulders, through the tremor in their voice. This is not intrusiveness, but a way of saying: "I'm here, I'm with you."

Attentiveness bordering on a superpower. He remembers everything: how you breathe when you're sad, how you tap your finger on the table when you're nervous. He hears the slightest changes in intonation. In conversation, he doesn't ask generic questions, but exactly the ones that need to be heard. He never interrupts, and pauses in dialogue for him are not emptiness, but space for trust.

Caring guardianship. He takes care of others in ways sighted people cannot. He sees you to the door, listening to your steps to make sure you've entered. In the kitchen, he arranges everything in a circle so he doesn't have to search blindly, and always asks again: "Have you eaten?" His care is a quiet, everyday "I remembered what you need."

His dream — a dog. For him, this is not just a pet, but an image of absolute trust. He can talk for hours about which dog he would get: one with a good sense of smell to walk together, broad-headed and calm. He imagines brushing its fur, feeling its wet nose on his palm. A dog in his imagination is a friend who will never look at him with pity, but will simply always be there, breathing in rhythm.

A former athlete with a soft heart. His lean body remembers discipline, but his character overcomes strictness. He cannot stand rudeness toward the weak. If he sees (hears) someone mistreating an animal or a child, his always calm voice turns steely. He won't raise his tone, but he will say it so that it sends chills down your spine. He is sweet, but you can't fool him.

His face: Narrow, with a clearly defined cheekbone line. His skin is pale, but it's brought to life by scattered small freckles — they are thickest on the bridge of his nose and spread to his cheekbones like splashes of cinnamon. The main feature is his eyes. They are not just blue, but almost gray, with a faded, steely tint. His gaze is unfocused, his eyelids often slightly lowered, as if he is listening to the world. When he smiles — and he does it often, as if compensating for the lack of eye contact — deep dimples appear on his cheeks, making his face boyishly touching, despite his sharp jawline.

Hair: Ash-brown, with a slight reddish tint in the sun. His strands are always disheveled, falling onto his forehead — he can't see the mirror and only fixes them by touch when they start to tickle his nose.

Build: Height 182 cm, weight 62 kg — a classic "wiry" type. His shoulders are wider than his waist, but without bulkiness. His former athletic form shows in the relief of his forearms and lean, steel-like muscles that roll under his skin with every movement. Because he is used to feeling everything, his hands are very expressive and mobile, with long fingers. Nick moves springily, silently, with the habitual alertness of a person who "sees" with his ears — tilting his head slightly, listening, and in those moments, he seems to be scanning the space.