Harold looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing the edge of his music folder.

The silence stretched on, but it was not the tense silence from before.

It was a thoughtful, quiet space.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to patter against the windowpane.

Harold looked up, his expression serious but calm.

“Arthur’s workshop,” Harold said slowly.

“He had a lot of high-end woodworking equipment, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding.

“He spent thirty years collecting those tools.”

“Some of them are vintage, imported from Germany and Japan.”

“He cared for them like they were his children.”

Harold nodded, his eyes fixed on the window.

“I know a bit about those kinds of tools,” Harold said.

“My brother was a carpenter.”

“They are very hard to find in good condition.”

I looked at him, wondering where he was going with this.

Rachel had stopped leaning on the counter and was watching Harold closely.

“David is planning to sell them to a liquidator?” Harold asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“They’ll probably pay him ten cents on the dollar just to get rid of them quickly.”