Elias sat there, staring at his hands.
Big hands.
Calloused.
Strong enough to carve wood into anything he wanted — once.
Now they just looked tired.
Empty.
Elias:
(rough whisper)
"What would I even build for?"
Calen thought about that for a moment.
He didn't rush.
Didn't offer neat answers.
Calen:
"Maybe…
you build for the ones still here.
Maybe you build for yourself."
Elias let out a harsh breath, almost a scoff.
Elias:
"I don't deserve to build anything good."
Calen:
(softly)
"Maybe not.
But maybe you deserve to try."
The words sank deep into the silence between them.
Not because they were loud.
But because they were true.
Elias scrubbed a hand over his face, the rough scrape of calloused skin against stubble loud in the quiet room.
Elias:
"I keep thinking…
if I make something again…
it'll be like…
admitting they're gone."
Calen:
"Maybe it's admitting they lived."
The man's hands froze.
A tremor ran through his fingers.
Calen pressed on, voice low but steady.
Calen:
"You loved them.
They loved you.
That doesn't end just because they're not here to hold it anymore."
Elias:
(whispering)
"It hurts."
Calen:
"It's supposed to."
Elias laughed then — a small, broken sound.
Elias:
"You're a strange kid."
Calen smiled faintly.
Calen:
"I get that a lot."
The fire in the hearth cracked, its weak flame struggling but alive.
The house creaked as if breathing with them, old wood settling into the quiet.
Finally, Elias stood.
Slowly.
He walked to a workbench shoved into the far corner of the room.
Dust coated it thickly.
Tools lay scattered like abandoned soldiers.
He ran his hand over the surface, leaving a trail through the dust.
Calen didn't move.
He just watched.
Elias picked up a block of wood.
Turned it over in his hands.
For a long moment, he simply stood there —
the weight of the choice settling into his bones.
Then, almost reverently,
he reached for a carving knife.
The blade caught the light of the lantern for a heartbeat.
Elias:
(gruff)
"Don't expect anything pretty."
Calen:
(gentle smile)
"Sometimes the first thing you build after breaking…
doesn't have to be pretty.
It just has to be real."
Elias let out a shaky breath.
Then he sat down at the workbench.
The first rough cuts echoed through the room —
sharp, imperfect, alive.
Calen sat quietly by the fire, the lantern's light catching each movement.
Each trembling line of wood peeled away.
Each breath Elias took — shaky but steady.
The weight didn't leave him.
It never would.
But maybe, just maybe,
he could carry it differently now.
The scraping of the carving knife against the wood was uneven at first.
Hesitant.
Like a man remembering how to breathe after being underwater too long.
Calen watched in silence.
The lantern's glow pooled over the workbench, catching each curl of wood as it fell.
Elias worked slowly, hands clumsy at first.
Then steadier.
A groove forming.
A rhythm awakening inside him that he thought he had buried alongside the people he loved.
Minutes passed.
Maybe an hour.
Neither of them counted.
At some point, Elias set down the knife.
The rough beginnings of a small figure sat in his hands — misshapen, uneven, but unmistakably alive.
It was a horse.
Tiny, crude, but standing proudly.
A mirror of the rocking horse he'd once built for Ellie Mae.
Elias turned the figure over and over in his calloused palms.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might crush it — like the grief would be too much.
But he didn't.
He just… held it.
Elias:
(hoarse)
"It's not good."
Calen:
"It's good enough."
Elias barked a broken laugh, wiping at his eyes roughly with the back of his hand.
Elias:
"Good enough."
He looked at Calen, something raw and naked in his gaze.
Elias:
"You're not just some traveler, are you?"
Calen tilted his head slightly.
Calen:
(softly)
"Maybe.
Maybe just someone who carries a little light…
until others can find their own again."
Elias stared at him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Elias:
(gruff)
"You carry it well, kid."
Calen smiled faintly, the lantern swaying gently at his side.
Calen:
"Only because others carried it for me once."
The fire crackled low, the house settling deeper into the arms of night.
Elias placed the tiny horse carefully on the mantle above the hearth.
It leaned slightly to one side.
The legs were uneven.
The carving was rough.
But it stood.
And that was enough.
Outside, the stars began to pierce the dark sky, small stubborn lights scattered across the endless black.
Elias saw Calen glance toward the door, his boots still dusty from the road.
Elias:
(gruff but warm)
"You heading out already?"
Calen nodded.
Calen:
"Still a lot of roads to walk."
Elias followed him to the porch.
The night air was cool, filled with the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke.
Elias:
"You ever get tired, Calen?"
Calen adjusted the lantern strap on his shoulder.
Calen:
"Every day.
But some lights…
are worth carrying tired."
Elias chuckled low in his chest.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn't feel like the silence around him was made of tombstones.
It was made of memories.
And memories could be built on.
Calen stepped down from the porch, the grass brushing his boots.
Elias watched him go — the boy's small figure swallowed slowly by the darkness, the lantern a single stubborn point of light moving against the night.
Before he disappeared, Calen paused.
Turned back slightly.
Calen:
(soft)
"Build something tomorrow.
Even if it's just a chair with three legs."
Elias laughed, shaking his head.
Elias:
"Bossy little brat."
Calen smiled — a full, rare smile — and then disappeared into the shadows, the lantern's glow bobbing gently ahead of him.
Back inside, Elias returned to the mantle.
He touched the tiny wooden horse again, feeling its rough edges.
Not perfect.
Not even pretty.
But real.
He left it there.
He would build again tomorrow.
And maybe the next day.
And maybe someday,
he would build something strong enough to carry the weight he no longer had to bear alone.
The road stretched ahead of Calen, quiet and endless under the stars.
The lantern swung at his side, casting a small stubborn glow against the dark.
He didn't know where he was going.
Not exactly.
But he knew why.
And sometimes,
that was enough.