Mote: Workshop

The shop always smelled the same—sawdust, old varnish, and the faint trace of machine oil that never quite left the air. As a boy, he used to sit on a crooked stool near the window, watching his father work in steady silence. Words were rare there; instead, his father spoke through careful measurements, patient sanding, and the quiet rhythm of a plane gliding across wood.

Now the tools rest where they were last set down, as if waiting for hands that won’t return. Running his fingers along the worn workbench, he can almost hear that familiar cadence again—tap, scrape, breathe. In the stillness, he realizes the shop was never just a place to build things. It was how his father showed love: not loudly, but in every joint cut true, every surface made smooth enough to last.