Mark had remembered the words.
He had kept them.
And in the final paragraph, he had written:
If the workshop is ever completed, I hope it will be finished by someone who understands that a person’s value isn’t measured by how much noise they make, how much money they earn, or how many people applaud them. It is measured by what they leave standing when they are gone.
Diane lowered the letter.
For a long moment, we sat in silence.
I thought about the workshop I’d built from almost nothing. The years I’d spent trying to prove I was worth something. The relationship that had convinced me I had to suffer to deserve love.
I thought about my father, who had taught me to work with my hands, and Mark, who had wanted to create a place where other people could learn the same thing.
Then I looked at Diane.
