The schoolhouse had a roof. From a distance, it was a complete silhouette, a new angular truth against the rolling hills. But inside, it was all potential, a vessel of echoing space and raw timber smell, waiting for the final acts of creation: the floor to be laid, the windows to be set, the door to be hung.
Finnian found himself planing a massive oak plank for the doorframe, the long, whispering shavings curling away from his blade. The rhythm was hypnotic. Push, glide, lift. Push, glide, lift. Each pass was an act of devotion, a conversation between his intent and the wood's grain. He was not building a door; he was uncovering it, revealing the smooth, perfect plane hidden within the rough-sawn timber.
This was the work now. Not the frantic race against collapse, but the careful crafting of permanence. It required a different kind of attention, one that was patient and receptive. He was learning to listen to the materials, to feel their resistances and their willingness.
