Sam’s Crafted life

The scent of fresh-cut oak and pine hung thickly in the air of the workshop. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting golden streaks across scattered tools and half-finished tables.

Sam Torres wiped sweat from his brow with a rough cloth, then ran his fingers over a piece of walnut, feeling every ridge and knot like it told a story only he could hear.

“Careful with that one, Miguel,” he called softly to a young apprentice sanding a chair leg.

Miguel looked up, surprised but pleased to be noticed. “Yes, Sam.”

Sam smiled, a small, genuine curve that softened his usually serious face. This was his sanctuary, where business met craftsmanship, and noise of the outside world faded into the background.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Letters from his mother, carefully tucked away in a wooden box beneath his bed, were far more important than any call.

His mother had been the heart of this company, teaching him to love the imperfect, the process, and the people behind every creation.

At the office, the polished glass towers and sleek boardroom didn’t reflect the same warmth as the workshop. Investors in suits pushed for efficiency, scale, automation things that made Sam’s jaw clench.

“Samuel,” his business manager said gently, “we understand your passion, but this company needs to grow. Mass production is the future.”

Sam shook his head. “It’s not just about growth. It’s about legacy. About honoring the hands that build, the stories the wood carries.”

Later, he drove out to the cemetery on the edge of town. The freezing wind tugged at his collar as he knelt with a granite headstone.

“Dad,” he whispered, voice thick, “I’m trying. Trying to keep this alive, for you, for Mom.”

He closed his eyes and felt the ache, a quiet companion he carried since childhood.

………………….

The bar was noisy, filled with laughter and clinking glasses. Autumn sat in the corner, nursing a glass of red wine, watching her friends chatter about dates, weekend plans, and new flings.

“You’ve got to put yourself out there, Autumn,” Jenna said, swirling her drink. “You can’t keep hiding in your work forever.”

Autumn forced a smile. “It’s not hiding.”

“Then what is it?” Maya asked, leaning in. “I mean, you never bring anyone home. We hardly see you on weekends anymore.”

She looked away, the weight settling heavy in her chest. “It’s complicated.”

Jenna tilted her head, concern softening her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.”

Later, walking home beneath streetlights that blurred in the drizzle, Autumn felt the cold press against her skin, but inside, it was a different kind of chill.

She pulled her coat tighter and thought about Alain. About how she had loved him so fiercely, only to have that love shattered by his lies.

The memory of his voice haunted her. “You’re too intense, Autumn. I can’t oversee it.”

Her steps quickened, her breath catching. The pain of his absence felt like a shadow trailing her, never quite leaving.

At her apartment, she pulled out her journal and flipped to a blank page. Her pen hovered, then scratched out a few tentative lines.

“Maybe I’m broken. Maybe I’m too much.”

She erased the words. No, she wasn’t broken. Not yet.

Tears blurred her vision as the rain pattered softly against the window. The loneliness inside her was vast, but she held it close,

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