I pushed the door open, and the smell of cedar, oil, and old sawdust drifted out into the damp afternoon air.

Harold stepped inside, his eyes widening slightly as he looked around.

The workshop was immaculate. Arthur had always insisted on keeping it clean.

Rows of chisels hung on the wall, their steel blades gleaming in the dim light.

A large, heavy workbench stood in the center, its wooden surface scarred from years of use.

Harold walked over to the bench and ran his hand over the smooth wood.

“He was a craftsman,” Harold said, his voice hushed with respect.

“He was,” I said, standing near the doorway.

Harold looked at a set of hand planes resting on a shelf.

“These are exceptional,” he said, picking one up and examining the brass fittings.

“They don’t make them like this anymore.”

He set it down carefully, exactly where he had found it.

He turned to me, his face serious.

“Your son needs money quickly, Eleanor,” Harold said.

“And he wants to sell these to strangers.”

“Yes,” I said, my throat tightening.

“Strangers who won’t care about the history of them.”