The workshop smelled of oil and wood dust, the air humming with the rhythm of tools.
Jonas stood at the doorway, clutching a brand-new leather journal in his hand. Its pages were blank—too blank, he thought, as though mocking him with their emptiness.
He was forty-five, too old (according to his own doubts) to start over, yet too restless to keep drifting through office work that dulled his bones. What he wanted was simple, at least in words: to learn the skills his grandfather once had. Carpentry. Repair. Building things that lasted.
But where does a man begin when his only tools are uncertainty and impatience?
“Don’t just stand there, boy,” came a gravelly voice from inside.
It was Petar, the retired carpenter who had agreed—reluctantly—to let Jonas observe in exchange for help sweeping floors. His hands looked like gnarled branches, scarred but strong, each finger carrying decades of memory.
Jonas stepped forward, heart thudding. “I want to learn. All of it.”
Petar snorted. “All? You’ll learn nothing that way.” He reached over, snatched the journal, flipped it open, and drew one rough line across the first page. “Skill isn’t a mountain you swallow whole. It’s stones. You stack them, one by one.”
He handed the journal back. “Write the first stone. One thing. Not ten.”
Jonas hesitated, then wrote, in shaky letters: Hammer a nail straight.
Petar grunted approval. “Good. When you can do that without cursing, we’ll add another stone.”
Jonas looked at the single line on the page, embarrassed at how small it seemed. But Petar only nodded, as if the true climb had finally begun.
That night, Jonas stared at the page under lamplight. He imagined the sound of the hammer, the sting of mistakes, the slow, patient rhythm of progress.
It wasn’t just a task. It was a map.
And for the first time in years, the blank pages didn’t frighten him.
The first nail bent sideways within seconds.
Jonas stared at it, cheeks burning, as if the steel itself had laughed at him. He yanked it free, tossed it aside, and tried again. The second bent faster.
From across the workshop, Petar chuckled. “You’re hammering like you’re fighting a war. This is no enemy—it’s a partner. Slow. Let your arm breathe with the strike.”
Jonas tightened his grip, raised the hammer, and brought it down with exaggerated caution. The nail wobbled and tipped.
Petar walked over, his boots heavy on the sawdust floor. “You’re thinking of ten things. Think of one. Picture the nail already straight, already buried clean. See it before you strike.”
Jonas inhaled, forced the picture into his mind: the nail smooth, flush against the wood, no bend, no shame. He exhaled and swung. The hammer rang true this time. The nail slid halfway in before stopping.
“Better,” Petar said. “Again.”
Hour after hour, Jonas struck. His palms blistered, his arms ached, and yet—slowly—the bent nails grew fewer. He began to hear a rhythm: steel on steel, pause, breath, strike.
By evening, a neat row of nails stood proud, some crooked, most straight. Petar inspected them without expression. Then he nodded once.
“First stone laid.”
Jonas sagged with relief, wiping sweat from his brow. He glanced at the journal, now with a single line crossed out. Tomorrow, another would take its place.
That night, lying in bed, Jonas heard phantom hammer-strikes in his ears. But instead of shame, the sound filled him with an odd peace.
For the first time in years, his body had learned something his mind alone never could.
The next stone was deceptively simple: Measure and cut.
Jonas thought it would be easier than hammering. He was wrong.
His first plank came up short—too short by three centimeters. The second, uneven, slanting like a crooked smile. The third split at the edge where the saw had wandered. By the fourth mistake, his patience frayed.
“This is pointless,” he muttered, tossing the tape measure aside.
Petar stooped, picked it up, and slapped it gently against Jonas’s chest. “The tape isn’t wrong. Your eyes are. You rush to cut before you see. A cut is final—once made, you can’t take it back. Measure twice, cut once. And before you measure—imagine.”
“Imagine?” Jonas asked.
Petar dragged a finger across the wood. “Picture the line before you draw it. Picture the saw gliding true. In your head first, then on the board.”
Jonas grumbled, but he tried. He stood still, eyes shut, breathing slowly. He pictured the pencil leaving a crisp, perfect mark, the blade following it clean, the board separating with a satisfying snap.
When he opened his eyes, the board looked less like an obstacle and more like an invitation. He drew the line carefully, checked it twice, then cut. The saw rasped, steady, his movements guided by the mental picture.
When the two halves fell apart, the edge was straight. True. His first.
Petar’s lips twitched—the closest thing to a smile Jonas had seen yet. “Better. Now make ten more the same.”
By dusk, Jonas had a stack of neatly cut planks. His shoulders throbbed, his fingers cramped, but pride swelled in him. He crossed another line in the journal, feeling the weight of it: not just progress, but proof.
Later that evening, he caught himself running his hand over the clean edge of the wood again and again, the way one might trace a scar. Except this scar was chosen, earned.
Winter crept into the workshop, cold enough that every breath rose like smoke. Jonas’s hands were raw, blistered and healing, blistered again. But the journal was filling. Each page held a new line: hammer straight, measure true, cut clean.
Now came the lesson Petar had warned him about: Joinery. Not nails. Not glue. Cuts and fits so precise that wood locked into wood like two palms pressed together.
Jonas stared at the chisels laid out on the bench. They looked more like surgical tools than carpentry. “I’ll ruin the pieces,” he muttered.
“You will,” Petar agreed. “And then you’ll ruin less. That’s how skill is built.”
The first mortise Jonas carved looked like a jagged wound. The second was no better. His temper rose fast—he wanted to slam the chisel, to demand obedience from the stubborn oak.
Petar caught his wrist mid-swing. “You’re carving impatience, not wood. Slow down. See the shape before you cut. Close your eyes if you have to.”
Jonas did. In the dark of his mind, he pictured the joint: the neat hollow, the tenon sliding in flush, the two boards standing strong as one. He let the image settle before he picked up the chisel again.
This time, his strokes were smaller, measured. The wood yielded, not quickly but steadily, each curl falling like a thin ribbon to the floor.
Hours passed. When he finally slid the tenon into place, it held—not perfectly, but firm, square, honest.
Jonas exhaled a laugh, surprised at himself. “It fits.”
Petar nodded. “Because you learned the hardest skill.”
Jonas frowned. “Which is?”
“Patience.”
That night, Jonas left the workshop long after dark. His body ached, his hands were nicked and sore. But as he walked home, he caught himself rehearsing the next step in his head—seeing the shape of joints, the steady hand guiding the chisel, the wood becoming whole.
And for once, he welcomed the long road ahead.
Spring brought light back into the workshop. The frost was gone, and with it some of Jonas’s stiffness. His journal was no longer empty—its pages carried a trail of progress, small stones stacked into a path.
Petar set a bundle of wood on the bench. Oak, heavy and clean. “Your final stone,” he said. “A table. Not grand, not fancy. Just strong enough to outlive you.”
Jonas swallowed. A table felt like a mountain. But he nodded, hands already reaching for the tape measure.
Day after day, he built. He measured twice, cut once. He hammered with rhythm. He carved joints with patience, rehearsing each movement in his head before touching the chisel. Every mistake became another line in the journal: check grain direction, sharpen tools before use, never force the fit.
There were nights when the table seemed cursed—legs uneven, joints too loose, edges rougher than he wanted. Each time, Petar’s voice cut through: See it first. Don’t chase the mistake—chase the picture of what it must become.
And slowly, the table emerged. Solid legs. A smooth top. Corners square and honest. Not perfect, but proud.
When it was done, Jonas stepped back, wiping sweat and sawdust from his face. His chest swelled with a strange mixture of disbelief and joy.
Petar ran his palm across the tabletop, nodding once. “It will hold.”
Jonas laughed, raw and relieved. “I didn’t think I could do it.”
“You couldn’t,” Petar said. “Not all at once. But stone by stone, you learned. That’s how mountains are climbed, and how tables are made.”
Jonas touched the journal, now heavy with ink and crossed-out tasks. It was no longer a record of goals. It was proof—of patience, of planning, of progress.
As he left the workshop that evening, Jonas glanced at the table one last time. He imagined future hands resting on it—meals shared, books spread open, children’s laughter echoing.
The wood would hold. And so would he.