Norbert moves through Duskmoor with the steady rhythm of hammer and saw, a squat figure whose belt of tools clinks like a rosary of iron and wood. His hands, broad and scarred, carry the patience of one who shapes order out of ruin. Ever cheerful, with a kindly nod or a word of reassurance, he is the quiet mender of broken doors, sagging beams, and weary porches. In a town shadowed by sorrow, Norbert’s craft is more than labour—it is a humble defiance against decay, a promise that not all things must crumble to dust.