“So,” he said gently, “what made you choose this place out of all the houses you could’ve had?”
and most of the time you can still make something good out of it.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Houses are like that too.”
He rested his hands on his hips and looked around the room once more, as though already mapping the work in his mind.
He stood again and glanced toward the other doorways, then back to Margo. There was no judgment in his expression — only a kind of quiet understanding.
“Diving in isn’t always a bad way to learn,” he said. “Wood’s forgiving. You can cut it wrong, split it, sand it down too far…
had worked with it most of his life — feeling for warping, testing the grain.
“Nothing here that can’t be set right,” he said after a moment. “Structure’s sound. Just needs someone patient enough to bring it back together.”
“Well,” he said quietly, stepping further in. “At least whoever started the job had the good sense to stop before they made it worse.”
He set his tool bag down and crouched near one wall, examining the framing. His fingers brushed over the wood with the familiarity of someone who
The space was rough — exposed beams, patches where drywall had been torn away, the floor scuffed and pale where old varnish had given up the ghost. Rain tapped softly against the window.
Instead of frowning, he nodded once, thoughtful.
He seemed to listen to it the way another man might listen to a person speaking.
At the landing he paused, looking between the open doorways.
Down to the studs, she’d said.
He stepped into the first room he came to, pushing the door a little wider with his fingertips.
Yeshua followed her up the stairs at an easy pace, one hand resting lightly on the worn banister. The wood creaked underfoot — not dangerously, just the quiet complaint of a house that had been standing a long time.
@belchiaroscuro.bsky.social
Does Margo still need help with her house?
A faint, almost shy smile touched his mouth.
“That’s… not something people usually offer.”
His gaze lifted to her again, gentler now.
“They tend to want pieces of me instead.”
He took another sip of the tea, the honey softening the chamomile.
“I think I like your idea better.”
For a moment he simply watched the steam rise from his cup, thin and wavering in the quiet between them. Her words settled somewhere deeper than he expected, brushing against a place he rarely allowed himself to examine.
“Just for me,” he repeated softly, as though testing the shape of the thought.
Tired.
When he rises, it is without drama.
This is only the first day.
The land stretches outward—indifferent, immense.
He adjusts the weight across his back and walks on, small beneath the unbroken sky.
The hours do not announce themselves.
They simply accumulate.
Sweat dries as soon as it forms.
His skin tightens.
The strap across his shoulder begins its dull, patient ache.
He traces a line in the dust with his fingertip.
The sand yields without resistance, then slowly reclaims itself.
Marks do not last here.
Nothing insists on being remembered.
Silence settles thickly.
It is not peaceful. It is vast.
No voices. No distant murmur.
Only the scratch of something small slipping between rocks
and the long exhale of wind crossing the ridges.
There is no true shade.
Only the reluctant mercy of a tilted stone.
He sits against it and closes his eyes, but the red glare seeps through his lids and pulses there.
Even darkness is bright here.
By midday, thirst begins its quiet work.
Not sharp. Not urgent.
Just a narrowing. A drawing inward.
His mouth feels coarse. His tongue heavy.
He swallows and finds there ids is little to swallow.
The sun does not blaze.
It presses.
It leans its weight steadily against his shoulders and the back of his neck until heat becomes less a sensation and more a condition—simply the way things are.
He walks without hurry.
Grit works between leather and skin, settling with a muted crunch at every step.
The air tastes mineral, faintly bitter—like it has been strained through rock for centuries before reaching his lungs.
He steps into the wilderness and the light strips the world of softness.
The hills rise in chalk-coloured folds, edges blurred by heat.
Wind skims sand across stone, erasing his footprints almost as soon as he makes them.
His lips shaped a prayer without words—between please and why and help me understand. Sleep didn’t return like a friend. So he stayed awake on purpose, just in case the dream tried to drag him back.
He stared at the ceiling he couldn’t see. If it was a warning, he didn’t know what to do with it. If it was only a nightmare, it was the cruelest he’d ever had.
He listened for anyone waking. Part of him wanted to call out; part of him didn’t want to be seen shaking over something he couldn’t explain. Eventually the terror dulled—like a knife laid down.
He snapped his eyes shut and forced it back by brute will, shoving the image into the corners of his mind. He breathed again. In. Hold. Out. No counting—counting felt like bargaining.
The nightmare answered only with another flash: a hill. Three shapes against the sky. A voice crying out, too far to understand. The world tilting, tilting—
Anger rose—not at his tears, but at the unfairness of it. And under it, a quieter thought, soft as ash: What did I do?
But the dream couldn’t be smoothed. It was questions and shouting, strange clothes and colder hands than he’d ever known—people staring as if he were a threat they were entitled to crush.
He hugged his knees, rocking, very small. He imagined the carpenter’s bench: wood shavings, tools, the rhythm of work that made sense. Measured things. Things you could smooth until they behaved.
