Chapter 8
The Hendersons’ railing is going to be late.
I’ve known it for a few days, but haven’t called them.
The scrollwork on the top rail needs at least six hours.
The detailed curves require patience and precision, not the brute-force hammering I’ve been doing all week to keep myself from driving to Sadie’s shop every twenty minutes to make sure no one’s bothering her.
I pick up the phone. Put it down. Pick it up again.
Margaret Henderson answers on the third ring.
“Mateo! How’s our railing coming?”
“That’s why I’m calling, Mrs. Henderson. I need a few more days. I’m sorry. I know we agreed on Monday.”
“Oh, honey, we saw what happened to Sadie’s shop. Take your time. That poor girl.” She pauses. “You tell her the Henderson family stands with her. And you bring that railing when it’s ready. It’ll be worth the wait.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson.” I hang up and sigh. One thing handled.
The forge is quiet this morning. As quiet as a working forge can be, at least. No crisis pulling me somewhere else, no phone buzzing with bad news.
Sadie’s at the shop with Macy today, and I’m forcing myself to let her have a day without me hovering.
For the first time in days, it’s just hammer, metal, and heat. The way it’s supposed to be.
I pull the railing piece from the coals and set it on the anvil.
The scrollwork is intricate. Decorative iron vines curl along the top rail, each one requiring a series of precise bends while the metal is hot enough to move but cool enough to hold its shape.
My father could do these in his sleep. I watched him for years, the way he seemed to know exactly when the metal was ready, exactly how much pressure to apply.
I’m not there yet. Maybe I never will be. But the work is good. It’s honest. Most importantly, it’s mine.
Three strikes. Turn. Two strikes. Check the curve against the template I drew last week.
Not quite. The inner curl is too tight.
I reheat and try again.
This is the part people don’t understand about blacksmithing.
They see the sparks, the muscle, the drama of fire, hammers, and molten metal.
They don’t see the hours of quiet repetition.
The hundredth attempt at a curve that looked easy on paper.
The way your hands ache at the end of the day from gripping tongs, not from swinging a hammer.
My father understood. He used to say the forge teaches you who you are. Whether you have the patience to let the metal tell you what it wants to be, or whether you’ll force it into something it’s not and watch it crack.
I think about that a lot lately.
The morning passes in a steady rhythm. I finish two scroll sections and start a third.
The railing is taking shape. It’s elegant, strong.
The kind of piece that will outlast the house it’s attached to.
The Hendersons will put it on their front porch, and their grandchildren will grip it while running up the stairs and never think about the hours that went into each curve.
That’s fine. That’s the point. You make something beautiful and useful, and you let it go into the world.
Around eleven, my phone buzzes. Isabel.
Ryan says I’m spending too much time on the mural. He thinks I should focus on things that make actual money.
Actual money? What does that mean?
IDK
I stare at the screen. Isabel’s been working on the community center mural every evening after work. It’s the biggest commission she’s landed, and the work is stunning. She showed me progress photos last week that made my chest fill with pride.
What did you tell him?
That I’d think about it
She didn’t push back. Which means he’s winning whatever quiet war he’s been waging against the parts of her that don’t revolve around him.
You finish that mural, Isabel. You don’t need his permission.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Thanks, hermano
I set the phone down and get back to work, but my mind is turning over what she didn’t say.
She dims around Ryan. She redirects conversations away from him the same way Sadie used to redirect conversations away from Owen.
I tried talking to Sadie once about Owen.
A year into their relationship, I watched him cut her off mid-sentence at the farmers market, then laugh and tell the person she was talking to, “Sorry, she rambles when she’s nervous.
” She wasn’t nervous. She was excited about a new book she’d ordered for the shop.
Owen turned that excitement into something embarrassing, and Sadie just folded. She smiled politely and went quiet.
I pulled her aside later and told her she deserved better than that. She didn’t come by the forge for three weeks.
Some lessons you can’t teach. You can only be there when someone’s ready to learn them.
The scroll work isn’t cooperating. The outer curve keeps flattening when I want it to round. I reheat, adjust my grip, and try a different angle.
Better. Not perfect, but better.
Papá would say that’s enough. That perfection is the enemy of done, and done is what pays the bills. But he’d also spend an extra hour on a piece no one would look at twice, because he’d know it wasn’t right, and the knowing would eat at him.
I’m my father’s son in that way.
By early afternoon, I’ve finished the scroll sections and moved on to the post caps. Simpler work. Functional, not decorative. My hands move on autopilot while my brain wanders.
Something’s shifted between Sadie and me this week. The way she holds my hand like she needs the anchor. The way she looked at me in her kitchen the other night like she was seeing me for the first time.
The words are always right there, and I consistently swallow them because the timing is always wrong.
But they’re getting harder to hold back. Every time she looks at me with those eyes that are just starting to see what I’ve been showing her for five years.
Soon.
I set down my tools and stretch. My shoulders ache. My hands are sore. The railing is nearly done. Two more days of work, maybe three. The Hendersons will have it by Thursday.
I grab a bottle of water and step outside. The November sun is low, painting everything a rich gold. From the workshop door, I can see the edge of town—the road that leads to Main Street, to the shop, to her.
She’s down there right now. Selling books. Recommending stories. Smiling at customers who smiled back and keeping her composure with the ones who didn’t. Showing up for a town that’s still deciding whether to show up for her.
I want to drive down there and check on her. Make sure she’s eaten. Make sure no one’s giving her shit.
Instead, I go back inside and pick up my tongs.
She doesn’t need me to check on her all the time. What she needs is someone who shows up without being asked, who makes things like bookends, breakfast… a life… and offers them without conditions.
I can do that. I’ve been doing it for five years.
The metal heats. The hammer falls. The shape emerges.
She doesn’t need me at her door today. She needs a day where she proves to herself that she can do this on her own.
I think she already knows. She just needs to believe it.