It was impressive. It was a Carpenter's Shop, but it looked more like a showroom.
The building was wide, built from high-quality dark oak that had been stained and polished to perfection. Unlike the rougher buildings nearby, the joinery on this place was seamless fitting for a master craftsman. Large double doors stood open despite the cold, inviting people in.
Displayed under the overhang of the porch were beautifully carved wooden chairs and a sturdy chest, showcasing the work to passersby. Above the door hung a sign, carved with intricate detail: Wilder Woodworks.
Sylvia bounced me slightly on her hip. "That's where your father works. He built this place from the ground up when we moved here. He makes the best furniture in the entire region."
We walked closer, and the smell of sawdust and fresh timber overpowered the smell of the snow. I could hear the familiar sound of a saw cutting through wood.
She smiled down at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Shall we go say hello?"
I let out a happy noise and waved my mitten-covered hand.
"I'll take that as a yes."
We stepped through the double doors, and the biting cold of the winter afternoon vanished, replaced by the rich, earthy scent of shaved pine, cedar, and sharp varnish.
The interior of Wilder Woodworks was cavernous and warm. The front section served as a showroom, displaying the finished pieces. To my left, a set of high-backed dining chairs sat arranged in a circle, their legs curved and elegant. To my right, a massive wardrobe stood with its doors slightly ajar, revealing complex joinery that didn't use a single metal nail.
I stared at the wardrobe. The wood was joined using dovetails interlocking wedge shapes that held together through tension and friction alone.
He's good, I thought, genuine respect rising in my chest. He's really good.
In my old life, I appreciated the mechanics of a pitch, the way the fingers gripped the seams, the way the wrist snapped. This was different, but the principle was the same. It was about mastery. It was about doing something a thousand times until it was perfect.
Through the open layout, I saw the workshop in the back. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light pouring in from the high windows.
Roxas was there.
He stood over a massive oak table, his body angled as he worked a hand plane across the surface. Even in the dead of winter, with the shop door open, he was sweating. His dark brown hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, held back by a thick cloth headband to keep the sting out of his eyes.
He wore a heavy wool tunic, but the sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle. A thick, scarred leather apron protected his chest and legs, the pockets overflowing with measuring tools and pencils.
Shhhh-Shhhh.
The rhythmic sound of the plane shaving off thin curls of wood filled the room. He moved with a practiced fluidity, putting his entire weight behind every stroke. He wasn't just pushing the tool; he was feeling the wood, reading the grain.
Sylvia walked further into the shop, her boots clicking on the wooden floorboards.
"How is the table for Soldat?"
Roxas paused mid-stroke. He stood up straight, rolling his massive shoulders to work out the tension. A crack echoed through the room. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and looked at the table, running a callused hand over the grain to check for imperfections.
"It's going well. It should take about a couple more weeks to finish. I still have to sand it a few more times, then stain it to get that signature look he wants."
He turned fully toward us, his eyes landing on me. His tired, focused expression instantly melted into a wide, beaming grin.
"How's my big boy doing over there? Finally came to see what your old man does for a living?"
I looked past him at the table. The surface was glass-smooth, the edges perfectly leveled.
Impressive. Truly solid work. I tried to give him a nod of approval, but my neck was still a bit wobbly, so it probably just looked like I was bobbing my head to music.
Roxas chuckles, wiping his hands on a rag hanging from his belt to clean off the sawdust. He walked over to a nearby workbench, rummaging behind a stack of blueprints.
"I have something for him."
He walked over to us, towering over Sylvia, and held out his hand. Sitting in his massive palm was a small wooden carving.
I stared at it. I'd never seen a creature like this in my life.
It looked like a squirrel, with a bushy tail and small paws, but attached to the back of its head, right where the neck meets the skull, was a pair of wings.
"This is my gift for you."
Roxas gently placed the object into my small, clumsy, mitten-covered hands.
"It's called a Flit. It's a small creature that wanders around in the forests and scavenges."
I grabbed the toy, bringing it closer to my face to inspect the details. The craftsmanship was incredible. The wood was sanded so smooth it felt like polished stone against my fingertips. He had carved distinct textures into it; the body had tiny grooves to mimic fur, while the wings were delicate and feathery.
But... a squirrel with wings?
I turned the toy over in my hands. Biologically, that shouldn't work. The drag coefficient would be a nightmare. Was this a mythological creature? A fairy tale monster he made up? Or was this my first confirmation that this world operated on entirely different rules?
Roxas watched me examine it, his grin widening. "He likes it! Look at him studying it. He's got an eye for detail, Sylvia."
"He certainly does," Sylvia agreed, smoothing my hat.
Roxas turned back to the table, picking up his sanding block. "Okay then. Let me finish this last layer of sanding. You guys go finish up the rest of your errands. I will meet up with you back home."
Sylvia waved a gloved hand. "We'll see you soon."
I glanced back over her shoulder as we left. Roxas was already bent over the wood, lost in his work, the rhythmic shhh-shhh of the sandpaper following us out the door.