“I need good work.”
Marla shook her head.
“We'll see.”
She walked away.
At 7:10, the doors opened.
At 7:14, the first-home couple arrived.
The woman waved.
“Elias.”
He stood.
“You came back.”
“You said Saturday.”
She had brought another woman.
“My mother.”
Her mother bought a box.
At 7:26, the man who purchased two flower boxes the previous week returned with his daughter.
She was twelve.
She wanted to meet the man who made her box.
At 7:45, Daniel arrived.
Coffee in hand.
He looked at the table.
“Seven?”
“Don't start.”
Daniel laughed.
At 8:05, four boxes remained.
At 8:40, two.
At 9:02, none.
Elias stared at the empty table.
Marla appeared twenty minutes later.
She stared too.
“Well.”
Daniel looked toward her.
“Crowd again?”
She ignored him.
Elias folded his hands.
“I suppose I need to ask.”
Marla raised an eyebrow.
“Ask what?”
“Next Saturday.”
She looked at the empty table.
Then at the customers who had taken cards.
One woman was already asking whether Elias could make a keepsake box for a baby shower.
Marla sighed.
“Same table.”
Elias smiled.
“Thank you.”
“But…”
He waited.
“You need a sign.”
“What?”
“People shouldn't have to ask your name every five minutes.”
Daniel grinned.
“That almost sounded helpful.”
Marla glared.
“It’s operational.”
Elias nodded.
“A sign.”
That afternoon, he made one.
Not printed.
Of course.
A small maple board.
Hand-routed letters.
MERCER & RUTH
HANDMADE WOODEN KEEPSAKE BOXES
He stared at the name after carving it.
Mercer & Ruth.
Not Mercer Woodworks.
Not Elias Mercer.
Ruth.
Hannah cried when he sent the picture.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You put her name on it.”
“She did half the work.”
“You're doing all the work now.”
Elias looked toward the paintbrushes lined above the bench.
“No.”
“Not all.”
The business grew slowly.
That part mattered.
The first good Saturday did not magically make Elias famous.
Some Saturdays he sold one box.
Some five.
Winter reduced market traffic.
Custom orders created problems he had never considered.
A woman wanted twelve identical boxes for bridesmaids.
Elias refused identical.
She compromised.
Same size.
Different flowers.
A man wanted one delivered in three days.
Elias said no.
Another customer thought forty dollars was too expensive.
Elias said he understood.
No argument.
No desperate discount.
Ruth had always said:
“If somebody doesn't want to pay for your time, don't make your time cheaper.”
Elias finally listened.
Daniel became a friend.
He worked as an architect.
That explained the obsession with corners.
His grandfather had indeed made violins.
Daniel began helping Elias photograph boxes with better lighting.
Not editing them until they looked fake.
Just making them visible.
Like the table.
He built a simple website.
Elias resisted for six weeks.
“No one buys boxes on computers.”
Daniel stared at him.