Chapter 6: The First Cracks
Chapter 6: The First Cracks
The workshop was quiet in a way the house never was.
Not empty.
Just honest.
Morning light filtered through the dusty windows, cutting across the wooden floor in long, pale lines. The smell of cedar still lingered in the air, as if my father had only just stepped out for a moment instead of leaving behind an entire life’s worth of unfinished projects.
Paige arrived earlier than usual that day.
She didn’t say anything when she came in.
She just placed a cardboard box on the workbench.
Inside were tools.
Not new ones.
Worn ones.
The kind Dad would have picked himself.
I glanced at her.
“You didn’t have to bring that.”
“I know,” she said.
Then, after a pause:
“I wanted to.”
That was new.
Not the words.
The intention behind them.
For weeks, she had been showing up to the workshop like someone trying to learn how to exist without being the center of everything. She still struggled with silence. Still filled it too quickly. Still flinched when she made mistakes.
But she stayed.
That mattered more than perfection.
I picked up a piece of sanded oak from the table.
“This is the frame for the first bench,” I said.
Paige nodded.
“I can drill the joints.”
I hesitated.
“You’re sure?”
She looked at me for a moment too long.
“I spent years being trusted with things I didn’t earn,” she said quietly. “I think I can handle something I actually have to earn.”
The answer wasn’t polished.
But it was real.
I handed her the drill.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees like a distant conversation.
Inside, Paige positioned the wood carefully, adjusting her grip twice before committing.
The drill started with a sharp hum.
Then—
A crack.
Too fast.
Too deep.
The wood split down the middle.
Paige froze.
The sound stopped.
Silence dropped into the room like a weight.
“I—” she began.
I didn’t speak immediately.
I walked over, picked up the broken piece, and studied it.
It wasn’t salvageable.
Not in the way we had planned.
Paige’s voice tightened.
“I can fix it. I just—misjudged the pressure.”
“You did,” I said.
Her shoulders stiffened.
“I’m sorry.”
I set the broken wood down.
Then I surprised even myself.
“So did I,” I said.
She looked up.
That made her stop breathing for a second.
I leaned against the workbench.
“This design is wrong for this kind of joint,” I said. “Dad would have changed it halfway through anyway.”
Paige blinked.
“You’re not mad?”
“I am,” I said.
Then I added:
“But not at you.”
Her eyes lowered.
“I always mess things up when it matters.”
“That’s not true,” I said.
She laughed once, humorless.
“It feels true.”
I stepped closer to the table.
“Feeling something doesn’t make it a fact.”
That shut her up.
Not because it was harsh.
Because it wasn’t.
We rebuilt the frame together.
Slower this time.
Measured.
Careful.
When Paige hesitated, I guided her hands instead of correcting her.
When I doubted a cut, she stopped me from rushing it.
For the first time, the workshop didn’t feel like a place where one person had to be right.
It felt like something being built between two people who were still learning how to exist in the same space without damage.
By midday, the bench frame stood upright.
Not perfect.
But stable.
Paige stepped back, wiping sawdust from her hands.
“I didn’t think I’d be able to do something like this,” she said.
“You didn’t,” I replied.
She frowned.
“What?”
“We did.”
She stared at the bench for a long time.
Then quietly:
“I think Dad would’ve liked this part.”
I nodded.
“He would’ve complained about the corner alignment first.”
That made her laugh.
A real one this time.
Not sharp.
Not defensive.
Just human.
We were still laughing when the front gate creaked open.
A car I didn’t recognize rolled into the driveway.
Black.
Expensive.
The kind that didn’t belong on our quiet street unless something was about to change.
Paige noticed first.
“Are you expecting someone?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
The car door opened.
A man stepped out in a tailored coat, holding a slim folder.
He looked around the property as if evaluating more than just a house.
Then his eyes landed on me.
“Ms. Ellison?”
Something about his tone made my stomach tighten.
“Yes?”
He approached slowly.
“My name is Leonard Cross,” he said. “I represent an investment group interested in acquiring properties in this area.”
Paige immediately stepped closer to me.
I didn’t move.
Leonard opened the folder.
“We’ve been informed that you own this residence and the surrounding workshop land.”
I said nothing.
He continued.
“There is significant development interest in this district. Your property sits on land that could be… substantially more valuable if repurposed.”
Paige scoffed under her breath.
“We’re not selling.”
The man smiled politely, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I understand emotional attachment,” he said. “However, we are prepared to offer—”
I raised a hand.
“Stop.”
He paused.
I looked past him at the trees, the old fence, the workshop behind me.
“This isn’t just property,” I said.
Leonard tilted his head.
“Everything is property.”
That was the first mistake he made.
Paige felt it too.
I stepped forward slightly.
“No,” I said. “Everything is only property if you’ve never had to rebuild something with your hands.”
Silence settled between us.
Even the wind felt quieter.
Leonard closed his folder.
“I’ll leave my card,” he said.
He placed it on the porch railing.
Then he left.
The car disappeared down the road as if it had never belonged here in the first place.
Paige exhaled slowly.
“People are going to keep coming, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I said.
She looked at me.
“What do we do when they do?”
I turned back toward the workshop.
We had a half-built bench inside.
Wood still warm from our hands.
We had unfinished plans on the table.
We had mistakes we were still learning from.
“We keep building,” I said.
Behind us, the wind moved again through the trees.
May you like
But this time, it didn’t feel like the past.
It felt like something trying to become a future.
