Hannah rested her palm against the smoothed surface of the box. Her fingers traced the slight unevenness of the grain, feeling the hours, the years, and the quiet dedication carved directly into the dark wood. Across the table, David sat motionless, his chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. The garden around us, usually filled with the warmth of summer afternoons and the lingering scent of barbecue, had grown entirely still. The distant noise of the neighborhood faded into background hums, leaving only the three of us anchored to that single wooden surface.
“You made this for her?” Hannah asked. Her voice was remarkably steady, barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the silence like a blade.
David nodded. “Every year, on September ninth, after we blew out your candles and put away the wrapping paper, I came out to the workbench. In the beginning, it was just a raw block of walnut I found in the old shed. I didn’t have a blue print or a clear plan. I only knew that while the world was celebrating your light, someone had to hold a space for the shadow she left behind. I couldn’t build her a life, Hannah. But I could build her this.”…
