“So I asked her to coffee.”
The older woman said:
“That worked?”
“I married her.”
More laughter.
Elias looked down.
The laugh in his own chest dissolved into something heavier.
“We were married in 1975.”
“Had one daughter.”
“I worked in a cabinet shop.”
“Ruth handled bookkeeping for a pharmacy.”
“Then after Hannah left for college, Ruth started coming into the workshop more.”
“At first, she complained it smelled like glue.”
“She wasn't wrong.”
Someone smiled.
“She painted as a hobby.”
“Flowers mostly.”
“Wildflowers.”
“Little branches.”
“Things she saw in old botanical books.”
“One Christmas I made her a jewelry box.”
“She looked at it and said…”
Elias stopped.
He could hear Ruth’s voice so clearly.
The stranger waited.
Elias smiled faintly.
“She said, ‘It looks like a coffin for earrings.’”
The crowd laughed.
“I told her to improve it.”
“So she did.”
“She painted blue flowers across the lid.”
“We gave it to Hannah instead.”
“Hannah still has it.”
He ran his thumb along the edge of another box.
“Then neighbors wanted one.”
“Friends.”
“Family.”
“We never made many.”
“It was something we did together.”
He looked toward the photograph still hidden beneath the table.
“After Ruth died, the workshop felt…”
He stopped again.
Nobody rushed him.
“Empty.”
“When I make these…”
His voice lowered.
“It feels like she’s still there.”
Not literally.
Elias knew grief could create strange habits.
He did not imagine Ruth standing beside the bandsaw.
But there were moments.
Choosing wood.
Mixing blue paint.
Sanding the lid.
When his hands repeated motions they had done beside hers for decades.
Those moments felt less lonely.
The older woman touched the box she had bought.
“I understand.”
Elias looked at her.
“My husband died eleven years ago.”
She said.
“I still cook enough soup for two.”
Nobody laughed.
She smiled.
“Habits remember people after we don't need them to.”
Elias nodded.
“Yes.”
A younger man asked:
“Do you have one of the small flower boxes left?”
“Three.”
Elias showed them.
“I’ll take this.”
“And one for my daughter.”
“Would you sign the bottom?”
Elias blinked.
“We never signed them.”
“Ruth and I always put the date underneath.”
The man looked at him.
“Then keep the date.”
“I want it exactly how you make them.”
Elias turned the box over.
Underneath, in small handwriting:
E.M. / OCT 14
Ruth used to write the dates herself.
After she died, Elias copied the format.
Not her handwriting.
He never tried that.
That would have felt wrong.
The man ran his thumb over the date.
“Perfect.”
Marla was still standing there.
The young candle vendor finally looked at her.
“You know what those pieces mean to him now.”
Marla crossed her arms.
“So?”
The candle vendor stared.
“Was humiliating him really necessary?”
Marla’s jaw tightened.
“Please.”
“A dead wife gets mentioned and suddenly every little box becomes a treasure.”
The atmosphere changed.
Elias felt it immediately.
He hated that sentence.
Not because it insulted him.
Because it reduced Ruth.
The stranger in the brown jacket answered before Elias could.
“No.”
He held up the walnut box.
“The boxes were already good.”
“We finally saw what you were doing.”