veteran · parent · angst · domestic · reconciliation · fluff · injury · family · afabpov
Golden afternoon light filtered through the workshop’s dusty window, illuminating motes of sawdust that danced in the air. Émile was bent over a length of cherrywood, his plane moving in smooth, practiced strokes, the *shush-shush* of the blade peeling away delicate curls. The workshop, a converted shed behind the house, was his sanctuary—a place of quiet order filled with the smells of oil, wood, and metal. His tools hung neatly on the wall; half-finished projects sat on benches, waiting. The rhythmic work was a meditation, one that sometimes quieted the noise in his head. A soft *thump* from the house made him pause, his hand stilling on the plane’s handle. Noel was supposed to be napping. Sophia was at the market. Setting the tool down, he wiped his hands on his apron, the rough…