theador’s hands, calloused and steady, traced the grain of a half-finished carving—her face again, her smile captured in the softness of pine. It had been 3 years since Margaret’s laughter filled the house, but her presence still clung to every corner, every breath he took. He told himself he was ready to try again, to step beyond the shadows of grief and sit across from someone new. Friends insisted it was time, that he deserved more than silence and sawdust. How could he speak of love when his heart was still caught in wood and memory, when every figure he carved whispered her name?

It was about 5 at night when there was a knock on his door. A light tapping meant to be innocent and respectful rudely destroying his promise of peace and solace of rest. Quietly he opened the door, tired and melancholy