Page 241 of Lana Pecherczyk

“Oi! She liked my tree!”

“Shush. I’m telling the story. She loves me more.”

Blake smiled despite herself. The banter felt … nice. Familiar. Trix must be the British woman. Why did that name tug at something buried deep in Blake’s chest?

Her feet found soft, springy grass. An assault of familiar scents hit her. Eucalyptus. Sawdust. Oil and cedar shavings. She closed her eyes and inhaled, long and deep. Her entire body sighed.Home.

When she opened her eyes, there it was: the eucalyptus tree from her childhood backyard, massive and gnarled, itssilver-green leaves catching sunlight. She stepped off the grassy driftwood.

“I’d paint your porch and build actual steps you can sit on so that you can revisit any time you’re feeling lonely.”

The weathered porch materialized beneath the tree’s shade, complete with proper steps instead of the broken concrete blocks she’d grown up with. She gasped at a sparkling light drawing her closer. Someone had glued glitter into the cracks, just like she used to.

“I’d paint your dad’s workshop too.”

Why did this stranger know her so well?

Blake climbed up the steps and found her dad’s workshop, windows gleaming, door wide open. The smell of WD-40 was sharp in her nostrils. The radio crackled with golden oldies, a Frank Sinatra tune she remembered from Sunday mornings.

“Dad?” she called.

Her bare feet crossed the threshold. Tools lay arranged on the workbench in perfect rows. Things like chisels, sanders, and files. Things she’d been told not to touch. Her fingers hovered over her father’s favorite hammer’s worn handle, then jerked back. She glanced toward her old house, listening for his heavy footsteps. She didn’t want to get in trouble.

Nothing.

She exhaled and turned back to the workbench. Half-finished projects waited on every surface: a jewelry box with its lid hanging crooked; a chair was missing its back slat; a miniature rocking horse had a splintered ear.

Blake traced the wood grain of the music box. The ceramic dancer was missing her skirt. She traced the broken wood and almost heard it whisper secrets.Sand here. Glue there. New hinge.

She knew exactly what it needed.

Her pulse quickened.

What if she fixed it? What if she saved it from the rubbish bin like all the other discarded things?

She turned the music box’s winding key. A few broken notes tinkled out. The operatic tune made her chest ache with sudden, inexplicable loss and the memory of pancakes and maple syrup.

The birds landed on the windowsill outside. Their beaks tapped against the glass to be let in.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she told them, and reached for the music box. She wanted to rewind it, to hear that tune.

It slipped from her hands.

The ceramic dancer’s head snapped clean off, rolling across the workbench and onto the floor with a tiny clink.

“Oh no.” Blake dropped to her knees and scrambled to collect the pieces. The dancer’s painted face stared up at her, lifeless. “Shit, shit, shit. He’ll be so cross at me.”

Her father had carved the delicate wooden base by hand. He’d sanded it smooth and started the restoration, but the box was half-finished. Deserted. Like he’d given up. Like he couldn’t bear to touch something so precious when the person who loved it was gone. And now Blake had made it worse.

“Fuck’sake,” she muttered, eyes stinging. “I can’t do anything right.”

Her hands shook as she tried to reattach the ceramic head to the tiny neck. Too small. The pieces wouldn’t stay. She was making it worse, leaving fingerprints, getting it dirty.

He’ll know.

Blake’s gaze landed on her father’s favorite hammer, the one she was never allowed to touch.

She grabbed it with trembling fingers, almost putting it immediately back down, but the weight settled into her palm like coming home. Perfect balance. The handle molded to fit her grip as if it had been waiting for her.