Klaus had fallen into a rhythm—the kind that settled into his bones. Chop. Split. Stack. The cold air bit at his cheeks, but the steady work warmed him. And through it all, Jesper’s voice fluttered around him like some overeager sparrow.

“…and then I told her, ‘No, no, no, that’s not my handwriting, I’m a professional—well, more or less—’”

Klaus didn’t always follow the words. He just let the sound of them fill the workshop the way firelight filled a dark room—soft, restless, alive. Every now and then he grunted to show he was listening. Jesper seemed happy with that.

They carried toys from one table to another, Klaus setting down carved shapes while Jesper tried—mostly unsuccessfully—to paint without smudging. Klaus watched him concentrate, tongue poking out slightly, brows furrowed in heroic effort. It made something warm settle in Klaus’ chest. Something he didn’t name.