Marcus woke at dawn, as he always did, kneeling beside his bed before his feet ever touched the cold floor. The apartment was small—barely more than a studio—but the morning light filtering through the single window held a quality that felt almost sacred.

“Lord,” he whispered, hands clasped, “bless me with work today. Provide for Your humble servant.”

It was a ritual he’d kept for three years now, ever since losing his job at the factory. Not a prayer of desperation anymore, but one of gratitude. He’d learned that much. Even now, scraping by on gig work, he had shelter. He had breath in his lungs. That was enough.