Chapter 10 - The Master Builder
Later that evening, long after the last guest had left, the fairy lights had been switched off, and the workshop had returned to its quiet, peaceful nocturnal rhythm, Leo and I sat together on the edge of the mezzanine.
The city lights twinkled in the distance through the high windows, painting long, golden geometric shadows across the rows of silent woodworking machinery.
Leo was holding a small piece of unworked white oak in his left hand and a fine-toothed carving chisel in his right, carefully shaving away thin, paper-thin curls of wood that drifted down to the floor below like autumn leaves.
I sat beside him, resting my back against the railing, watching the steady, rhythmic motion of his hands.
"Dad?" Leo asked softly, without looking up from his work.
"Yeah, buddy?"
"Do you ever think about them? Grandpa? Uncle Evan?"
The question hung in the quiet air for a moment, light and fleeting, like dust motes caught in a beam of moonlight.
I thought about the cold white-marble living room. I thought about the sound of shattering wood, the brittle laughter of my mother, the heavy, crushing shadow of a man who believed love was something to be bought and sold. I thought about the tiny apartment above the laundromat that smelled like bleach and hot metal, and the shaky balcony where I first learned how to turn splinters into survival.
Then I looked at my son—strong, brilliant, fiercely independent, and completely safe.
"Sometimes," I said honestly, wrapping a warm arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. "Not with anger anymore, Leo. Just... like characters in an old book we used to read."
Leo stopped carving for a second. He turned his head, looking up at me with those sharp, clear grey eyes, and smiled a small, knowing smile.
May you like
"Good," he said simply. "Because we don't need their book anymore."
"No," I agreed, tightening my grip around his shoulder as we looked out over the workshop below, where every table, every beam, and every handcrafted piece stood solid, beautiful, and true. "We're writing our own."
