Page 6 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

T he morning sun is too bright.

It hits the trailer windows like a hammer, scattering light across the desk where yesterday’s plans still lie untouched. I should be reviewing them. Deadlines loom. The firm expects numbers by week’s end.

But my mind drifts—again—toward ink-stained fingers and salt-heavy air.

Foolish.

I close the laptop with a snap.

A knock rattles the thin door.

Not my crew. Too light.

I rise, frowning, and pull it open.

Jamie Moore stands there, curls windswept, a canvas tote nearly as big as he is slung over one shoulder. Sand clings to his bare feet. His cheeks are pink with sun.

“Morning, Mr. Drokhaz!” he chirps.

I blink. “You are alone?”

He grins. “Mom’s busy with poetry stuff.”

I arch a brow. Poetry. Of course.

“I brought these!” He lifts the tote with a grunt, then dumps its contents across my drafting table.

Seashells. Dozens of them—spiraled, cracked, bleached smooth by the tide.

“For creative inspiration,” he announces proudly.

I stare at the pile, then at him. “You collect artifacts for architects now?”

He shrugs. “They make the buildings happy.”

A huff of amusement escapes me.

“You are persistent,” I say.

Jamie beams. “Can I stay?”

I hesitate. Logic says no. The boy should not be here—should not be near me. Not if I wish to maintain distance. Control.

But when I look down into those wide sea-glass eyes, the word won’t come.

“Very well,” I say. “For a short time.”

“Yay!” He scrambles up onto the spare chair. “What’re you building today?”

I glance at the untouched plans. “Nothing yet.”

“Why not?”

Because my focus is fractured. Because your mother lingers in my thoughts like a thorn beneath the skin.

“Because even builders require… inspiration.”

Jamie nods sagely. “That’s why you need seashells.”

“Perhaps.”

He hums under his breath, then peers out the window.

“Can we go outside? Mom says the benches are sad.”

I frown. “Sad?”

“They’re broken. No one fixes them.”

I consider this. A distraction might serve us both.

“Very well,” I say. “But you will follow my instructions.”

He grins. “Deal!”

Minutes later, we stand before one of the boardwalk’s oldest benches—its slats cracked, iron legs rusted. Seagulls wheel overhead. The air smells of salt and old wood.

I fetch tools from the trailer—hammer, nails, sandpaper. Jamie trails me like a shadow.

“Can I help?” he asks.

“You may hold the nails. Carefully.”

He does, watching each of my movements with rapt attention. I strip the rotted slats first, muscle memory guiding the work. The sun warms my back. Sweat beads at my brow.

“Why do you do this?” Jamie asks suddenly.

I glance down. “Repair is necessary.”

“No, I mean… why build stuff at all?”

I pause, setting the hammer aside.

“To leave something behind,” I say finally. “To create order from chaos.”

Jamie considers this. “Mom says the boardwalk’s full of stories. You can’t buy stories.”

I study him. “Your mother is… not wrong.”

He smiles, satisfied, and begins humming a sea shanty—off-key but earnest.

I work in silence, letting his small voice fill the space.

Time stretches. The bench takes shape beneath my hands—old bones given new life.

When I test the frame, Jamie claps.

“It’s happy now!”

I huff a laugh. “Benches do not feel.”

“Maybe not to you.”

I shake my head, amused despite myself.

Without warning—Jamie asks:

“Did you ever have a mom?”

The hammer stills in my grip.

I inhale slowly, the question sharp as a blade.

“Yes,” I say at last. “I did.”

“What was she like?”

I set the hammer down, gaze drifting toward the sea.

“She was strong,” I say quietly. “Proud. She taught me honor. Duty.”

Jamie tilts his head. “Do you miss her?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

The word is rough in my throat. I rarely speak of her. Rarely allow myself to remember.

Jamie nods. “I miss my dad sometimes. Even though he left.”

Anger sparks low in my gut—anger I do not voice. The boy deserves more than abandonment.

“He was wrong to do so,” I say.

Jamie shrugs. “Mom says some people don’t know how to stay.”

Wise words. Painful ones.

I rise, brushing sawdust from my palms.

“Come,” I say. “We must finish.”

Jamie beams, hopping to his feet. Together, we affix the final slats, smooth the wood with sandpaper. When we step back, the bench gleams faintly in the sun.

“You did good,” Jamie says, grinning up at me.

I nod. “So did you.”

He pulls a small shell from his pocket—a perfect spiral.

“For the bench,” he says, tucking it beneath the seat. “So it won’t be lonely.”

Something shifts in my chest. I cannot name it.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

Jamie smiles. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

I hesitate.

Logic says no.

But against reason, I hear myself say:

“If your mother permits it.”

“Okay!” He waves. “Bye, Mr. Drokhaz!”

I watch him race down the boardwalk, curls flying.

Alone again, I sit on the bench—new wood warm beneath me.

And I wonder:

Perhaps not all things must be built for profit.

Perhaps some… are built for peace.

Later that night, the trailer is still.

Outside, the tide whispers beneath the pilings. Inside, only the soft scratch of pencil against paper breaks the silence.

I sit hunched at my drafting table, sleeves rolled to my elbows. The official plans for Lowtide Redevelopment lie open beside me—cold lines, sharp angles. Efficient. Unfeeling.

But my hand moves toward a fresh sheet instead.

Without thinking, I begin to sketch.

The bench.

Simple. Worn. Alive again.

I draw its slats, the iron legs I scrubbed clean. The faint curve Jamie insisted would make it “friendlier.” And beneath it, a small spiral shell—hidden, waiting.

The lines flow easy. Too easy.

When I finish, I sit back, frowning.

This does not belong here. My firm would scoff. Clients would call it sentimental clutter.

I tear the page from the pad and tape it to the wall above my desk.

A small reminder.

Not of failure. Not of strategy.

But of a promise made beneath sun and salt:

Some things are worth saving.

Even if no one else sees it.