Green door.
Ruth had painted that door eighteen years earlier.
Elias opened it.
The smell arrived.
Cedar.
Dust.
Finishing oil.
Old paint.
For six months, walking into the room had hurt.
That night it still hurt.
But differently.
He placed the remaining crates down.
Set Ruth’s photograph on the workbench.
Then the little walnut box.
KEEP WHAT MATTERS.
He looked at her.
“Well.”
He said.
“You had a good day.”
Silence.
Then Elias laughed at himself.
“You still take credit for everything.”
He sat on the stool beside the bench.
For the first time since Ruth died, he stayed in the workshop after sunset without feeling desperate to leave.
He opened his order notebook.
Wedding-photo box.
Four weeks.
Blue flowers requested.
Deep interior.
He smiled.
Then wrote:
NEXT SATURDAY
Need at least 8 pieces.
He stared.
Eight.
Impossible.
At his current pace, maybe four.
Five if his hands cooperated.
He turned toward the shelves.
Several unfinished pieces waited.
One needed hinges.
Two required sanding.
Another needed paint.
Ruth would have said:
Don't rush.
He could hear it.
“If somebody takes it home, they get the whole job.”
His own words now.
Her principle.
Elias worked until 9:40.
Not rushing.
The next morning, Hannah called.
“How was the market?”
Elias opened his mouth.
Then smiled.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes.”
“How many sold?”
“Thirteen.”
Silence.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“Thirteen?”
“Something like that.”
“Something like…”
She laughed.
“Oh my God.”
“What happened?”
Elias looked toward the workshop.
“People looked.”
That was all he said.
Hannah understood enough.
“Mom would've loved that.”
Elias swallowed.
“Yeah.”
The following Saturday, Elias arrived at 5:55.
Earlier than usual.
He had seven boxes.
Not eight.
His right hand had swollen on Wednesday, forcing him to stop for half a day.
He refused to rush the seventh.
So seven.
He unfolded the same table.
Same corner.
Same cream cloth.
This time he placed Ruth’s photograph openly near the rear.
Not centered.
Not as advertisement.
Part of the table.
He arranged the boxes the way Daniel had shown him.
Space around each.
Lids open.
Corners visible.
At 6:35, Marla appeared.
She stared at the table.
“Only seven?”
“Only seven.”
She looked disappointed.
“Last week you had fifteen.”
“I sold most.”
“You could have made more.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Elias looked at her.
“Because they weren't ready.”
Marla sighed.
“You do realize this is retail.”
“Yes.”
“You need inventory.”