The guilt in his eyes was almost unbearable.
“You look good,” he said.
“I look repaired.”
A broken laugh escaped Elias.
“Better than before.”
“Much.”
The workshop was too loud for conversation, so we went upstairs.
Miriam had brought cardamom bread, still warm from their kitchen, and the wooden box.
She placed both on the table.
“Our grandson made this,” she said. “He’s twelve. He has recently discovered woodworking.”
Inside the box sat a small carved boat.
The hull was uneven. One side rose higher than the other. A tiny brass pin served as a mast.
Noah lifted it carefully.
“He made this for me?”
“For the yard,” Miriam said. “Elias told him you repair boats and rebuild things.”
Elias cleared his throat.
“He wanted to make something that had never been broken.”
Noah’s fingers stopped.
Miriam looked at her husband.
“That was not the sentence we practiced.”
“I know.”
Noah traced the rough bow with his thumb.
“It’s good.”
Relief softened Elias’s face.
“It leans.”
“So do I.”
Miriam laughed.
We sat with coffee and slices of cardamom bread.
Elias asked about therapy.
Noah told him enough.
