The second morning came softly, spilling golden light through the shattered windows and creating dusty patterns on the floor where Jun had slept. He awoke slowly this time, with only the peaceful warmth of the sun on his face and the far-off sound of birds singing by the lake instead of the startling alarm clocks and racing heart that had characterized his mornings in his former life.
After lying there for a long time, enjoying the silence, he sat up and stretched his arms above his head, feeling his muscles relax and his joints pop in a way that was incredibly gratifying.
His voice echoed softly off the walls as he said, "Good morning," to the empty room.
He used his basic setup to make coffee, and the aroma of the beans filled the room with warmth. He carried the cup to the window and gazed out at the lake, feeling an overwhelming sense of thankfulness that nearly brought him to tears.
He thought, "I'm here."
He located his notebook and made his first entry in meticulous handwriting.
Day 2: The lake is full and the building is empty. I'm in the middle, but today I'll start, build, and make something.
Jun made the decision to properly evaluate the building after breakfast, going through each floor with his notebook in hand and taking thorough notes on everything that needed to be fixed.
The first floor was the top priority, and the windows were the most urgent issue because they let in moisture and cold air, which made the area feel unwelcoming rather than inviting.
Only three of the twelve windows he counted on the main floor were still in working order; the others had rotted frames, missing panes, or cracks from years of neglect.
The biggest window, which faced the lake, had a distorted frame, dirty glass, and a hole in the corner from a long-ago impact.
For a long time, Jun stood in front of that window, picturing what it would look like when it was whole and clean, with the lake framed like a painting and the light streaming in, warming everything it touched.
He muttered, "One thing at a time," and looked away to survey the remainder of the structure.
The walls were dusty but undamaged, the floors were worn but sturdy, and the ceiling had a few areas where water had seeped through but nothing that couldn't be fixed. The kitchen area in the back had the framework of something useful, but it would require new appliances and a thorough cleaning. The bar was sturdy despite its age.
His handwriting was neat and precise as he recorded everything in his notebook. When he was done, he had three full pages of notes and an overwhelming sense of purpose that tightened his chest.
However, upon reviewing his list, he discovered that he was clueless about how to accomplish the majority of these tasks.
He had never installed anything more complicated than a bookshelf from a flatpack box, nor had he ever fixed a window or a floor. He had never acquired the practical skills necessary for this new life because his previous life had been all books, tests, and pressure.
As he gazed at his notebook, he experienced the well-known burden of inadequacy.
He heard a whisper in his mind, "You can't do this." This was the same voice that had haunted him at family get-togethers, during tests, and whenever he had ever felt inadequate.
"You have never built anything, you have never fixed anything, and once you destroy this place, you will have nothing."
Jun closed his notebook and inhaled deeply.
He yelled, "Shut up," and even though his hands were shaking, his voice was firm. "I'm no longer that person."
He made the decision that this would be his first try after walking to the damaged window in the main floor corner that was the furthest from the lake and had the least amount of damage.
The process was awkward and annoying at first, but as soon as he touched the wood, something changed.
In addition to gathering scrap wood from the accumulation of broken furniture over the years, Jun had discovered some old and rusty but still functional tools in the basement. Using a tape measure that had seen better days, he measured the opening in the window frame. He then used a pencil that he had sharpened with a knife to mark the measurements on a piece of wood.
When he held the piece up to the window, it was nearly two centimeters too short, and the edges were splintered and rough. His first cut was crooked, with the saw blade catching and jerking as he attempted to guide it through the wood.
With a sigh, he tossed the piece away.
Although his second cut was better—straighter and smoother—he miscalculated the angle of the frame, and the piece didn't fit correctly, sitting crookedly in the gap like a child's drawing rather than a photograph.
He also tossed that piece aside.
The saw slipped and almost cut his finger on his third attempt, which was worse than the first two because he was exhausted, frustrated, and his hands were shaking. He cursed under his breath and sat down on the dusty floor, staring at the pile of destroyed wood in front of him.
He breathed slowly as he sat there for a long time, feeling the frustration pulse through his veins before it gradually subsided like a tide retreating from the coast. He refused to give up. He had to keep trying. Even if it took him a hundred tries, he would succeed because this was his only opportunity and his only life.
He picked up another piece of wood, but his perspective was different. He examined the texture, the way the light caught the surface and exposed the minute differences in color and density, and the grain, the way the lines flowed through the wood like rivers on a map.
He began to comprehend something he had not previously understood as he ran his fingers along the board's edge, feeling the smoothness of the surface and the roughness of the cut.
Wood had a flow, a direction, and a desired shape. It was more than just material to be coerced into compliance. It was something to pay attention to, something to cooperate with rather than oppose.
He picked up the saw once more, and this time his grip was secure, his hand felt steady, and his thoughts were clear. He pressed the blade up against the wood and started cutting, and the saw cut through it like water, effortlessly and smoothly, driven by a precision that seemed to originate from somewhere beyond conscious awareness.
He didn't give his actions any thought. He simply did it.
The wood yielded to the blade as if it had been waiting to be shaped, and the saw sang as it cut, a rhythmic shushing sound that filled the silent room. He measured, marked, and cut again, and he was surprised at how precisely each piece fit together.
When he was done repairing the window, he took a step back and examined his work. The repaired area was smooth, flush with the original frame, solid, straight, and precisely correct. The joints were tight, the wood grain matched flawlessly, and everything appeared as though it had always been that way.
Jun gazed at it incredulously.
He had completed the task. In fact, he had done it.
His smartphone chimed after that.
Confused because he hadn't touched it, he took it out of his pocket to see a notification glowing a gentle golden light on the screen.
---
[New Skill Acquired: Carpentry]
[Level: 10/10 - Mastery]
[Description: The skill of using wood. At this level, you have a perfect intuitive grasp of tools and materials, and your creations are long-lasting, aesthetically pleasing, and structurally sound.]
---
After reading the notification twice, Jun experienced an odd mix of wonder, perplexity, and subdued happiness. It would have taken years for him to reach the level of skill that the System had given him—mastery, not just any skill.
He felt incredibly thankful, as if his grandfather had reached across worlds and placed a gift in his hands, even though he had no idea how it worked or why he had received it.
After putting his phone away, he glanced at the window he had repaired and then at the leftover scrap wood. Suddenly, he was inspired to create something bigger and completely unique.
He discovered the wood in the basement, a pile of dust-covered but sturdy pine boards that had been kept there for years. One by one, he carried them up to the main floor, laid them out on the floor, and gave them fresh insights.
He planned to construct a table.
It is a straightforward table with four legs and a top that is sturdy enough to support a cup of coffee without swaying. It is neither intricate nor exquisite. It didn't have to be flawless; it just needed to be useful, unique, and the first thing he had ever created.
His hands moved with an unprecedented confidence as he measured, marked, and cut with a precision that seemed effortless. Sandpaper smoothed the edges until they felt silky under his fingers, and the saw cut cleanly and straightly through the wood like butter.
First, he cut four identical pieces of wood to precisely the same length for the legs. Next, he shaped the frame that would hold them together, joining the pieces with tenon and mortise joints that fit together with a satisfying click. Last was the top, a broad, level pine slab that he sanded until it was warm to the touch and smooth.
When he was done, the table stood firmly and straight with not a single wobble in any of its legs. He had meticulously assembled the table, checking every joint for stability and squareness.
Jun felt a silent pride that didn't require words as he sat back on his heels and gazed at his creation.
He felt the warmth of the afternoon sun trapped in the wood's grain as he ran his fingers over the table's surface. He knew that this first piece, this first creation, was something he would always cherish.
After moving the table to the window so that he could see the lake from his seat, he made a fresh cup of coffee, took a seat at his new table, and gazed out at the water.
The sky was streaked with clouds that resembled brushstrokes on canvas, and the sun was setting, painting the water in hues of pink, orange, and gold.
As Jun sat at his table and sipped his coffee, he felt a serenity that had nothing to do with accomplishment and everything to do with the act of being present in a place that was becoming his own.
He had never once built anything for himself or produced anything that was wholly original; instead, he had spent his entire life attempting to be what other people wanted, to live up to expectations, gain acceptance, and demonstrate his value.
Now he had, though.
The idea made him feel more alive than he had ever felt. He had built a table, fixed a window, and had an entire building full of empty spaces to fill with his own creations.
He located his notebook, turned to the first blank page, and began writing in his meticulous, methodical handwriting.
Day two. A window was fixed. constructed a table. The table is sturdy. The window has been fixed. I am able to create things.
Tomorrow, I'll work on the coffee machine.
He shut the notebook and turned to face the lake. The sky was getting darker now, stars were starting to appear one by one, and the water reflected them like a scattering of diamonds on black velvet.
After finishing his coffee, he sat at his table for a long time, watching the lake grow darker and the stars grow brighter. When he eventually got up to go to bed, he paused and took another look at the table.
It was merely a table. It is straightforward, sturdy, and lovely in its simplicity.
However, he had succeeded. And that was what changed everything.
As he lay on his futon and gazed up at the stars through the roof crack, he considered all the empty spaces in the building, all the rooms that were just waiting to be occupied, and all the things he could construct.
With the faint scent of sawdust still on his hands, Jun closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep as the lake outside sang its soft melody.