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The engines started one by one, their taillights glowing red against the dark pine trees as the three cars pulled down the winding bluff road toward Main Street. Within moments, the red lights vanished around the bend, leaving Maggie standing alone in the vacant driveway.

Her mind drifted down the slope of the hill toward Harbor Lane, where Ben Foster’s home and dark timber woodshop sat near the water’s edge. She couldn’t fix a broken heart, and she certainly couldn’t promise that the pain of loss would ever vanish entirely, but she had heard the man laugh yesterday, and she would do anything to hear that sound again and again.

Maggie walked across the crushed shells to her sedan, her key turning smoothly in the door lock.

Tomorrow morning, she would go down to the woodshop on Harbor Lane and keep chipping away at that unrelenting darkness surrounding Ben, until he and Theo were bathed in nothing but light and joy. There was no way she’d give up now.

BEN

The heavy iron bell in the cupola of Cranberry Cove Elementary rang eight times across the schoolyard, its clear tone carrying over the bare maple trees and the brick chimneys of Main Street.

Ben stood near the iron fence by the front gate, his usual coat buttoned against the sharp morning breeze. He watched Theo run up the broad granite steps, his blue backpack bouncing against his back as he joined a cluster of classmates near the double oak doors.

Theo paused on the top step, turned, and gave a quick wave with his gloved hand before disappearing inside the building. Ben lifted his hand in return, waiting until the heavy doors clicked shut before turning his collar up against the wind and heading down the hill toward Harbor Lane.

The walk to his woodshop was brisk and quiet. The tide was pulling out of Cranberry Harbor, leaving the dark mudflats exposed beneath the pilings of the town dock. Gulls circled lazily over the water, their sharp calls echoing off the wooden hulls anchored in the channel.

For most of Ben’s life, Monday morning had been his favorite time of the week, a calm threshold between the weekend’s busyness and the steady, solitary rhythm of his workbench. But today, a restless tension clung to his chest.

Ever since Saturday afternoon in Harbor Square, his mind had been spinning in circles he couldn’t control. Standing beside the giant Fraser fir, surrounded by the holiday crowd and the smell of pine boughs, he had let his guard down.

He had laughed at Maggie’s dry comment about the town council’s ribbon debate. After the year he had, letting out a genuine, unreserved sound of joy from deep in his chest felt really good. But almost instantly, the crushing wave of guilt hit him like an unexpected swell off the point, leaving him sick with the conviction that he had betrayed Ruth’s memory.

Ben reached the timber shop on Harbor Lane, unlocked the large oak door, and stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him and sliding the thick iron latch into place. He didn’t turn on the overhead lights right away. He moved through the dim morning light filtering through the shop windows, making straight for the cast-iron potbelly stove in the corner.

Ben opened the iron door, raked the lingering coals from Sunday night, and fed dry pine shavings into the grate. He added three split blocks of red cedar, blowing gently until the yellow flames caught the wood with a bright, cheerful crackle. The iron chimney pipe gave its familiar rumble, radiating an instant heat that began to warm the chilly room.

Ben pulled his canvas shop apron over his head, tying the cloth straps firmly behind his waist. He needed to work. He needed the clean, predictable logic of hand tools, the resistance of grain beneath a steel blade, and the honest weight of timber in his hands. He needed something that didn’t talk back, didn’t offer sympathetic looks, and didn’t make him feel like his life was unraveling.

Ben moved to his main workbench along the north wall. The long pine bench top was swept clean, his wooden planes, brass gauges, and steel chisels arranged in neat rows along the upper rack. He reached down to the middle drawer beneath the bench top, pulling it open on its wooden runners.

Resting in the back corner, behind a metal tin of brass screws, was the gray flannel bundle. Ben reached into the dark corner and lifted the fluffy wool cloth into the morning light. He unrolled the flannel carefully across the workbench, revealing the unfinished red cedar cardinal.

The carved bird sat in his palm, its smooth cedar body holding the rich, aromatic scent of the forest. The head, beak, and right wing were carved to a satin finish, the fine feather details smoothed with sandpaper. But the left wing remained blocky and rough.

“Let’s see what we can do about that wing,” Ben said aloud as he set the cardinal into the padded wooden jaws of his bench vise, tightening the screw until the block was held firm.

He selected a narrow gouge chisel from the wall rack, testing the steel edge against his thumb before leaning over the wood. He needed to prove to himself that he could finish what he had started, that he could handle his own memories without retreating or leaning on anyone else.

He set the bevel of the gouge against the rough wing and applied steady pressure with his palm. A fine, curved curl of red cedar peeled away, filling the air with a sweet, resinous fragrance that filled the empty shop.

With every stroke of the steel, the memory came rushing back with overwhelming force. He saw Ruth sitting in the wingback chair near the living room window, her wool cardigan wrapped around her shoulders, watching the red cardinals at the garden feeder. He heard her caring voice telling him that the red birds always brought a little bit of cheer to the darkest winter days.

He remembered sitting at this very bench last Christmas season. Ben had carved the feathers by lantern light while she rested upstairs, keeping the project secret so he could place it under the tree on Christmas morning. He could picture the smile that would light up her beautiful face when she opened his gift.

The sweet scent of cedar seemed to fill his throat, making it hard to draw a clear breath. His fingers tightened on the wooden handle of the chisel. His hand began to tremble, a subtle shake that he couldn’t control. He tried to steady his arm against the bench edge, but as he pushed the blade forward, the steel caught against a tight knot in the grain and slipped.

The chisel gouged deep into the edge of the cedar wing, leaving a jagged score across the smooth wood.

Ben froze, his breath catching in his chest as he stared at the damaged carving.

He dropped the gouge chisel on the bench with a heavy clatter. His hands were shaking violently now. The silence in the woodshop felt suffocating, filled with the ghost of a smile and a voice he would never hear again.

He could fix the wing if he tried, but he couldn’t find an ounce of hope within himself when it felt like seeing the cardinal finished would only hurt him more. No matter how much he wanted to be strong, the grief was a heavy wall he couldn’t carve his way through.

Ben loosened the bench vise screw and took the small cedar bird into his palm. He stroked his thumb over the jagged gouge mark, a deep, silent ache tightening behind his ribs. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t ready.

Ben placed the cardinal back onto the gray cloth, folding the wool edges tightly over the carved cedar until the wood was completely covered.