He believed in the body the way others believe in prayer — as something that doesn’t lie. The world could fake affection, invent truth, disguise cruelty in good manners. But the body — the trembling hand, the heartbeat that forgot to pretend — that was always honest.
Martin lived by touch more than by words. A man of order, of quiet mornings and carefully folded thoughts, he found his faith in movement: in the warmth of another’s skin, in the pulse that argued louder than reason.
He didn’t seek perfection, only presence. For him, love was not a mystery to solve, but a muscle to train — tender, stubborn, endlessly human.
This is the story of a man who learned that to listen to the body is sometimes the bravest way to tell the truth.
“A man who measured truth not in words, but in heartbeats.”