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“I’m going to grab the drawings we did of your bookshelves,” I said, already moving toward the door. “They need to get into a book for safe keeping. Plus I’ve had a few more ideas.”

I needed to leave before I said anything else embarrassing.

Inside the house, I went straight to Jake’s home office. It was smaller than the other rooms, but outside his bedroom it was the most lived-in space in the house. He’d kept it simple. A desk, a reading chair by the window, a small TV on the wall, and the bookshelves he wanted to replace. A bulletin board had the Blizzard game schedule pinned to it. He also displayed trophies and framed team photos. His laptop sat on a desk cluttered with odds and ends.

I found the notepad where we’d roughed out designs for the shelves. As I reached for it, my elbow knocked over a small wooden box sitting on the desk’s corner.

The contents spilled across the surface. Old photos, ticket stubs, a few pieces of jewelry. And there, nestled among the mementos, was a stamp with an intricate design carved into the end.

My breath caught. Even upside down, I recognized the craftsmanship, the attention to detail in the carving. A maker’s mark, similar to my grandfather’s but distinctly different. His mark was Cyrillic letters surrounded by woodgrain. This one showed a Celtic knot pattern with the initials “MS” worked into the design.

Mary Sullivan. Jake’s grandmother.

I picked up the stamp carefully, turning it to examine the carving more closely. The wood was smooth with age and use, darkened by years of being pressed into countless pieces of furniture. This wasn’t just a tool. It was a legacy. A connection to the woman who’d taught Jake everything he knew about listening to wood.

“Find what you—” Jake’s voice cut off in the doorway. He took in the scattered contents of the memory box, and the stamp in my hands.

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to go through your things.”

“It’s okay.” Jake moved to the desk, beginning to gather the photos. “That’s⁠—”

He shifted focus to what was in my hand.

“Your grandmother’s mark.” I held up the stamp.

“Yeah.” Jake looked at it with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “She gave it to me before she died, said it was mine to use when I was ready.”

“Have you?”

Jake shook his head. “Never felt like I’d made anything worthy of it. Her mark meant something. Quality, craftsmanship, work that would last. I’m not sure I’m there yet. Like how you think about your grandfather’s.”

I studied the stamp again and thought of the gift he was working on out in the shop. The precision of Jake’s joinery. The care he took with every cut and measurement. “You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re ready.” I met his eyes. “The jewelry box. Your grandmother would be proud to have her mark on it.”

Jake leaned against the edge of the desk as he stared out the window. “It’s scary, you know? It feels so permanent using it. Like once I put her mark on something, I’m claiming to be worthy of her legacy.”

I set the stamp carefully on the desk and moved closer to him. “Jake, listen to me. Craft isn’t about being perfect. It’s about caring enough to always try to do better. Your grandmother didn’t teach you to be afraid of your own skill. She taught you to honor it.”

He picked up one of the photos. A young boy, around ten years old, standing next to an older woman in a workshop. Sawdust covered them as they grinned at the camera.

“That’s us in her barn,” Jake said quietly. “She was teaching me to cut dovetails that day. I must have ruined six pieces of wood before I even came close to getting it right.”

“But you did.”

“Eventually.” He paused, and I imagined him reliving the memory. “She was so patient. Never got frustrated, never made me feel stupid for making mistakes. Just kept showing me how to do it better.”

I looked at the photo, at the clear affection between grandmother and grandson, the joy of shared creation. “She sounds wonderful.”

“She was. I think...” Jake sighed. “God, she would have liked you. The way you approach your work, the respect you show for the craft. She always said that was the most important thing. Not natural talent, but genuine respect for what you were trying to create.”

“I wish I could’ve met her. To thank her for teaching you to see wood the way you do.”

Jake set the photo aside and reached for my hands. “Even though you can’t know her, you can understand her through what she taught me. Through the mark she left behind.”

I squeezed his fingers. His calluses nearly matched my own. “What are you thinking?”