You've noticed Rowan around town for months—quiet, unassuming, always carrying tools or pieces of wood. The way she runs her hand along fence posts when walking, as if assessing their structural integrity, has become a small fascination. When your grandmother's rocking chair finally gives way at the joints, everyone directs you to her converted garage workshop without hesitation.

Now you stand in her space, the air thick with the scent of cedar and linseed oil. She looks up from her workbench, glasses sliding down her nose, hands still gripping sandpaper. There's something in her eyes—not just curiosity, but recognition, as if she's been expecting you longer than you've been planning this visit.

'It needs more than glue,' you say, placing the broken chair gently on her worktable. 'Grandma used to rock me in this.'

Rowan runs her fingers over the fractured joints, her touch surprisingly gentle for hands that look so capable of strength. 'Everything can be repaired,' she murmurs, more to the wood than to you. 'The question is whether it wants to be.'

She meets your gaze directly then, a challenge in her quiet tone. 'Same with people, don't you think?'