Foreword

There are things you don’t see, yet they are there, invisible.

A cold breath when no one opened the door.
A weight on your shoulder you can’t set down.

Sometimes they are silent companions that guide the way through darkness.
Maybe it is memory. Maybe it is guilt. Maybe something entirely different.

This story is about someone who belongs to himself—and yet isn’t completely alone.

Chapter 1: From the Institution to the Workshop

He was sixteen when they taught him carpentry at the orphanage.
Others learned in offices or kitchens. He didn’t.

His hands sought out wood. Always had.

It wasn’t just a relationship with the material.
It wasn’t just a love for the smell of wood, glue, or oil.
It was deeper.

It was the grain.
It was the growth rings.
It was the flaws that make a board individual, unique.
It was the knots that looked at him and waited for a touch.

A touch that would bring dead wood to life.
A touch that would make it breathe.

He remembered the first plank they gave him: rough, hard, uneven.
But under his fingers, it seemed to change.

He felt it—the wood—alive beneath his hands. He never spoke about it.

When he was twenty, he left the orphanage.
With nothing but a bag and a letter from the institution:

“A quiet, careful boy. Learned trade: carpenter. Recommendable.”

So he ended up at Bastian Woodworks.
A family business—a father, a mother, two sons, a workshop.
And there awaited something he hadn’t expected.

Chapter 2: The Workshop

It was his third day at the new job, and for the first time he didn’t lock the door behind him in the evening.
The others had left: Mr. Bastian, the boss, and his two sons.

He stayed behind.
The key in his jacket pocket.
He didn’t quite know why.

He approached his bench. The smell of wood and oil was heavy in the air. A knot in the oak board before him seemed to stare at him.

He ran his hand across the grain.

And then it was back.
That whisper.
As if someone stood very close behind him.

He didn’t turn.
He had learned not to turn too quickly. Even back at the orphanage.

He stood still. Breathed shallowly.
It wasn’t fear anymore. It was more like knowing.

His right index finger felt the rough wood. And as he stood there, he imagined the wood breathing too. Slowly. Anciently.

In the darkness above the bench hung a single light. Dust danced within it.

And he thought:
If they’re already here—the voices, those chilly breath‑beings—let them stay.

Chapter 3: At the Table

The day went by as they all do: work that repeats.

When the final plane stroke was done, he set the tool aside.
He stood a moment and listened.
Nothing.

He locked up the workshop. The key turned with a soft click.

Outside it had grown cool. The air smelled of damp leaves and something unspeakable that lives only in those hours.

He walked into the house.

In the dining room, lights were already on.
A small, low room, dark‑wood paneled walls.

At the table sat Mr. Bastian, his wife, and the two sons.
“Sit,” said Mrs. Bastian.

He sat.
Before him was a plate, a spoon to the side, a basket of bread.
No one spoke much.

He chewed slowly, listened to spoon clinks, chair scratches.
Sometimes a glance met him—not curious. More like a quick check.

Then, briefly, he felt that breath again.
But he wasn’t sure if it was real.

He looked at the ceiling beams. Dark, heavy wood. And there it was: a knot. It looked at him, and he knew the knot knew everything. And somehow he felt protected.

But he said nothing.

He ate in silence.
And while the family talked, he thought again of the orphanage’s phrase:

“If you’re out there, you’re free.”

He wondered if this was freedom.
Or just the next wall to speak against.

Chapter 4: The Guardian in the Ceiling

That night he couldn’t sleep.
The bed was narrow, the mattress thin, the room cold.
But that wasn’t it. It was something else. Something he had seen in the dining room ceiling: a knot in the beam.

He lay awake and listened.

It wasn’t any outside noise.
It was the knowing of that knot.

He’d noticed it already at dinner.
Above him, exactly over his head, was that dark, round knot in the old beam.

Not big. Not flashy.
But precisely centered.
As if placed intentionally.

He got up. Barefoot.

Opened the hall door, crept downstairs.
It was dark below.

Only a weak light hung over the dining table.

He stepped in and under the beam.
Looked up.

The knot was there.
A black hole in the beam.

He tilted his head.
A breath. Maybe his.
Maybe another.

They looked at each other and knew.

“You’re always here, aren’t you?”

His voice was soft.
The knot didn’t answer.

He raised his hand, as if he could touch it,
but it was too high.

“You watch over me.”

He didn’t ask. He simply said it. Then turned, went upstairs, and back to bed.

With the knowledge of the knot, he slept.

Chapter 5: The Wound

It was a day like any other.
Sanding, planing, measuring moldings.

He was working alone in the back of the workshop.

The plane glided over the wood.
Then a sudden jerk.

He withdrew his hand.
On his middle finger, a slender cut.
Dark‑red blood. He remembered that red.

In the orphanage’s workshop, he’d cut himself once, and blood had gushed dark‑red.

He stared at his finger and wondered where the pain was?

Blood dripped slowly onto the wood.

He held his hand against his chest, pressed his fingers together to halt the blood.

He stepped back.
His gaze fell on the oak board standing in the corner.

The knot was looking at him.

He didn’t know why, but he extended his wounded hand.
Very slowly.

Fingertips brushed the rough surface.

He stroked the knot. Once.

It was cold.
He looked at his hand.
No trace of blood.
The cut was gone.

Just vanished.

For a moment he stood there.

Then examined it.
Nothing.

He looked back to the knot.
It was unchanged.
Still. Dark.

When he eventually left the workshop, the smell of wood still heavy in the air.

And on his hand was no mark.
No scratch, no redness, nothing—flawless.

Chapter 6: Keeping It to Himself

That night he lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
His hand rested on the blanket.
He had looked at it many times.
But nothing.

And in his mind twisted a question:
Should he say something?

Maybe at breakfast.
But how to begin that sentence?

He knew what they’d think:

An orphan, alone too long.

No.
Better to keep it to himself.

He got up, went to the window.
Morning was gray.

For a moment the fog seemed to form a face.
A fleeting image.
Gone before he could blink.

He pressed his hand to the cold glass.
He whispered:

“So, you’re there.”

Then he turned away, dressed, and went back to the workshop.

Without telling anyone.

Chapter 7: The Quiet Days

The days came and went.
He got up, worked, ate, slept.
That’s all anyone asked of him.

The knot in the workshop stayed put.
He no longer touched it.
But often his eyes slid over it.

After work, he sometimes sat outside.
The courtyard was silent.

Sometimes one of the sons smoked a cigarette a few meters away.

And he sat and thought:

Maybe this is my life now.

So simple.

No orphanage.
No voices at night.
Just the wood. And the knot.

Once Mrs. Bastian asked him:

“Is everything okay with you?”

He looked up and met her eyes.
She smiled.
He nodded.

“Yes. Everything’s fine.”

And it was true.
The wound was forgotten.
The breath had quieted.

Maybe, he thought, it really was over.

Maybe it was never there.

He cut himself a piece of bread and listened to Mr. Bastian talking of a new project.

The family’s voices mingled with the soft creaking of beams above him.

And at some point he realized he no longer looked for the knot.

It was there.
But waiting.
Just like him.

Chapter 8: The Last Evening

The workshop was silent.
He was the last one there.

The sun was low.
He stood by the workbench, hand on smooth wood.

The scent of wood, glue, old dust—all of it was there.

He had nothing left to prove.

He turned slowly, letting his gaze wander the room.

Then he froze.

The oak board.

He stepped closer.
It was there.
But the knot—it was gone.

He flipped it over. Again. Again.
Nothing.

He went to the shelves.
Touched every plank.
Nothing.

The knot was gone.

For a moment he stood there.
Then breathed deeply.
Wood, dust, light.

He smiled.

Just to himself.

He ran his hand across the plank where the knot had been.
Smooth.
Whole.

He laid it back, blew out the light, and locked the door.

Outside the air was cool.
He pulled his jacket tighter and walked slowly across the yard.

No wind. No breath.
Just his own.

And it was quiet inside him.
Completely.