Clarkandmartha

Clark smiled, a real smile, the kind that felt strange on his face after months of boardroom glare and alien invasions. He stepped inside, the familiar smell of yeast and wood polish wrapping around him like a blanket.

For one perfect evening, he wasn’t the last son of Krypton. clarkandmartha

He was just Clark. And Martha was just his mom. And that was more than enough. Clark smiled, a real smile, the kind that

The corn was high that summer, higher than Clark Kent remembered it ever getting back when he was a boy. He stood on the porch of the Kansas farmhouse, the screen door whining softly behind him, and watched the amber waves ripple under a sky so blue it looked painted. He was just Clark

And Martha Kent was in the kitchen, humming a tune from the old radio, her hands buried in a mound of dough.

“You looked tired, son,” she said simply.

Clark closed his eyes. Above them, a distant star—the one he’d never seen, the one that had sent him away—began to twinkle. But it had nothing on the warm, steady light burning in the kitchen window behind him.