Morning in Jayne Carter’s Room

The quiet echo of the factory's machines still ringing faintly in Jayne’s dreams when the morning

sun slid through the narrow blinds. It splashed across the cracked walls of his small bedroom,

settling on the framed photo of his father above the nightstand. ‎

‎Jayne Steve Carter stirred beneath the worn gray sheets, exhaling slowly through his nose

before opening his eyes. His skin, a smooth deep brown, caught a faint glow

from the sunbeam. He sat up, running a hand over his buzzed hair—tight and clean,

cut just last weekend at the corner barbershop. His face was calm but sharp, with thick brows

and a slightly furrowed forehead like he was always halfway through thinking. Strong jaw.