A younger candle vendor nearby looked uncomfortable.
Elias wanted to pack everything.
Right then.
Put the boxes back in crates.
Fold the table.
Drive home.
Close the workshop.
Maybe Hannah had been wrong.
Maybe this had been foolish from the beginning.
He had spent forty years building cabinetry.
Built-ins.
Dining tables.
Stair rails.
Mantels.
Custom kitchens.
People had paid thousands for his work.
But that had been years ago.
His last commercial project was almost eight years behind him.
His hands were slower now.
His back hurt.
His eyes needed stronger light.
Maybe Marla saw something he did not.
Maybe these small boxes really were an old man pretending craftsmanship still mattered because he did not know what else to do with his time.
Marla picked up one with painted daisies.
“You made these flowers too?”
“No.”
Elias’s voice changed.
“My wife did the original designs.”
“I paint them now.”
Marla tilted the lid.
“I’m sorry.”
For half a second, Elias thought something human had finally reached her.
Then she continued.
“That actually makes this worse.”
Elias looked at her.
She shrugged.
“You’re trying to reproduce someone else’s painting and sell it as a product.”
Elias stared.
“You can laugh at me.”
“Just leave the work out of it.”
Marla put the box down.
“I’m laughing because you brought a hobby here and called it a business.”
She glanced at his white hair.
“At your age, you'd think you'd know when to let something go.”
Everything around Elias became very quiet.
Not actually quiet.
Vendors still moved.
Tables scraped.
Someone dropped a crate.
A coffee machine hissed near the entrance.
But inside him, silence.
“My age has nothing to do with the work.”
Marla smiled.
“No.”
“But it should teach you when you're embarrassing yourself.”
A man’s voice came from behind them.
“Sir, before you put anything away, may I see that box?”
Elias turned.
A man in his late forties stood several feet away.
Tall.
Brown jacket.
Jeans.
Reading glasses hanging from his shirt collar.
He had been sitting at the coffee booth ten minutes earlier.
Elias remembered him because he had looked over twice.
At the boxes.
Not at Marla.
The man stepped closer.
“The walnut one.”
Marla gave a dismissive laugh.
“Look all you want.”
“Curiosity doesn't turn bad work into good work.”
Elias looked at the stranger.
“It’s all right.”
“He can decide for himself.”
The man picked up the walnut chest.
Unlike Marla, he used both hands.
He turned it.
Opened the lid.
Closed it.
Ran his thumb along one corner.
Then looked at Elias.
“These are hand cut.”
“Yes.”
“The dovetails?”
“Yes.”
The man brought the box closer to his face.
“You didn't use a jig.”
“No.”
“How can you tell?”
Marla asked.
The man ignored her.
He pointed at the joints.
“These corners are hand cut.”
“You don't get joints this clean by accident.”
Elias felt something loosen slightly in his chest.
“No.”
“You get them by taking your time.”
The stranger smiled.
“Exactly.”
Marla folded her arms.
“It’s still a box.”
The man looked at her.
“Then people ought to get a closer look.”
He turned back to Elias.
“What wood?”
“Black walnut.”
“Maple bottom.”
“Cedar lining.”
The man smelled the interior.