Summer brought work. Oak & Stone took on the restoration Luis had proposed, a century-old house with warped floors and oak trim that had survived far more than anyone expected. Tessa led part of the interior documentation under my supervision, and Priya introduced a budgeting process so transparent that even I could no longer avoid reading every line. We hired another apprentice, a quiet young man named Jordan Ellis who knew little about renovation but asked good questions. On Fridays, the crew sometimes stayed late to eat pizza among the saws and workbenches. The business wasn't suddenly easy. It was ours to run honestly, and that felt more valuable than the Westbridge check Ryan had once dangled in front of me.
I began volunteering twice a month with a community workshop that taught basic carpentry to teenagers. On my first Saturday, I stood before eight students holding a crooked picture frame and explained that nearly every project looks worse halfway through than it will when finished. A boy in the back asked whether I'd really made a living building things. I told him yes, although it had taken years before the living part became reliable. The students laughed. We spent the morning measuring and cutting, making mistakes, fixing them, and learning that an imperfect first attempt wasn't proof of failure.
When the workshop ended, I stayed to sweep the floor. A teenage girl named Olivia lingered beside her unfinished shelf, looking miserable. One corner sat higher than the other, and she'd spent the last twenty minutes trying to force it level.
“I ruined it,” she said.
“No,” I told her. “You found the part that needs work.”
“What if I can't fix it?”
“Then we learn something and start again. But first we make sure we're measuring from a straight line.”
I reached for my grandfather's brass level, which I had brought from home. The bubble moved toward the center as we adjusted the shelf. Olivia smiled when it finally settled between the marks. For a moment I heard Dad's voice on his porch and remembered how much trouble I'd had admitting where my own life had gone crooked. I was grateful he had helped me find a way to look at it without pretending.
By the first anniversary of Natalie's departure, the maple tree in the front yard was turning red again. I noticed the date only when I checked the calendar while planning a customer meeting. For months I'd expected the anniversary to feel like a wound reopening. Instead, it arrived as a quiet recognition that I had survived a year I hadn't known how to imagine.
I still lived in the house. Refinancing it had required uncomfortable financial decisions and a smaller budget than I was used to, but I had chosen to keep it because I loved the neighborhood and because I no longer believed the walls belonged to a version of me that had died.