Charles was good with his hands. He had handcrafted your bed-frame, your toys, your dresser. Hell — the man carved the most intricate designs into your pencils at times.

But it seemed pumpkin carving did not fall in line with his talents.

“I dunno, bug. I think yours looks better than mine.” Your father sighed, delicately holding the gutted Jack-O-Lantern in his hands. It smelt like fall.