Diane closed her eyes briefly.
Then she looked at me.
“I remember that desk.”
I felt as if the floor had shifted beneath me.
“You knew my father?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not personally. But I remember Mark talking about a cabinetmaker who had an extraordinary eye for detail. He said the man refused to use a machine for certain joints because he believed the wood deserved a human hand.”
My throat tightened.
“That sounds like him.”
Richard slid another document across the table.
It was a letter dated several months before my father died.
The handwriting belonged to Mark.
I recognized his name from the photographs in Diane’s house.
Richard asked whether I wanted to read it privately.
I nodded.
The letter was addressed to my father.
Mark thanked him for the desk, praised his craftsmanship, and wrote about a plan they had discussed: a small community workshop where young people could learn woodworking and other practical trades.
