“Don’t cry,” Remsl said, not unkindly. “That’s just the shape of it settling into you. It’s meant to fit.”
“Homes,” he said. “I carve the homes people have forgotten they lived in. Not the walls. The space inside the walls. The warm pocket of air where a child hid during hide-and-seek. The bit of hallway where two people fell in love on a rainy Tuesday. The silence in the pantry after a good meal.” “Don’t cry,” Remsl said, not unkindly
“What are you carving?” I whispered. ” Remsl said
Remsl smiled. It was a small, inward thing, like a knot in wood. “Same sickness. You try to trap what’s gone. I try to set it free.” “Don’t cry,” Remsl said, not unkindly
Then the carving faded. The water stopped. The laugh echoed once and died.