Then he stepped out into the chill air of morning, the door closing behind him with a solid, final click.
If Nic were not so preoccupied, he would have thoroughly enjoyed the brisk walk through North Town. The forest rang out with the music of songbirds as they rejoiced for the rising of another day. The temperate spring air was filled with the fragrance of fresh morning dew, new sprouting leaves, and butterfly-kissed wildflowers. Even sunlight caressing the woodland path carried the scent of brightness.
As he neared his worksite, echoes rang out through the trees—the noise of hammering, sawing, and the voices of men stalwartly laboring.
Could it be? Had his crew returned to work? He ran to find out, his heavy toolbox rattling in his haste.
Four of his six men were hard at work. Two were currently laying down the planks for the ledge. One was measuring the window frame. Another was sawing floorboards that was scheduled to be installed in the next few days. Not only had the crew returned to work, but they had begun the day early. Only Martin and Esaw were missing.
“Morning,boss,” Rene said from the top of a trestle. His greeting was not at all sarcastic.
Brandon shouted, “I hope you don’t mind that we started early!”
Nic set his toolbox down on the tree stump, his fingers lingering on the worn handle. For a moment, he didn’t move. The sounds of labor surrounded him—hammers striking true, saws rasping through timber, men calling to one another across the frame of the house—his project.
He scanned the scene, hardly trusting what he saw. His men—working not just steadily, but well. Focused. Coordinated. Like the weather had shifted overnight.
He had braced himself for silence, for the hollow sound of his own footsteps and the sting of being abandoned. He had prepared to fail alone. But instead, there was this—motion, effort, the subtle rhythm of trust being earned back, piece by piece.
His chest tightened—not with pride exactly, but something quieter. Gratitude. Maybe even belief.
He exhaled, the weight on his shoulders not gone, but lighter. Maybe—just maybe—he could do this after all, and he couldn’t wait to tell Helen.
He rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get to work.”
The Summons
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Collin jolted upright, nearly knocking the chair over. His knees slammed the table hard enough to scatter its contents—books, utensils, a teacup. The sliver of green glass he’d been examining slipped from his fingers and sliced deep into his forefinger.
He hissed in pain, instinctively pressing the finger to his mouth. His other hand shot out, slapping the tabletop to keep the teacup from toppling over.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“I’m coming! Just—hold on,” he shouted, voice sharp. Snatching a dishtowel from the chair back, he wrapped it hastily around his bleeding finger as he stormed toward the front door.
He yanked it open with a glare—then froze. “Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, quickly adjusting both tone and posture. “What can I do for you, sir?”
The man standing there wore the dark green uniform of the guard. His face was expressionless, eyes cold. “Are you Collin of Chroma?”
“Uh... yes.” Collin fumbled to twist the towel tighter around his hand. He was keenly aware of how disheveled he looked: hair uncombed, shirt misbuttoned, still groggy from sleeping in. He hadn’t left the house in two days. He’d needed the break—justa few days to breathe—but now he wondered if that choice had consequences.
The guard produced an envelope and held it out. “This is a summons.”
