Elliot wiped his hands. "A desk."

He typed: Dean Forest Works — Wood. Steel. Things That Last.

Elliot leaned back in his workshop chair. Around him, the air smelled of linseed oil and cedar shavings. A half-finished cradle—curved like a river stone—sat clamped to his bench. His grandfather's old radio murmured jazz from the corner.

She took photos without asking. Posted them that night. By morning, the domain name deanforestworks had 4,000 visits. The hotel chain called back—they wanted the chairs exactly as Elliot saw them. A novelist offered twice his rate for a writing table "with one deep flaw in the top, so I remember nothing's perfect."