Not a showroom desk. A working desk. One with a hidden drawer for secrets, a surface worn smooth by elbows and anger and late-night breakthroughs. He'd build it for himself. No client. No deadline. Just the truth of the grain.
He shut the phone off.
Now the cursor blinked beside the empty text field: Site Title . deanforestworks
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. Not a showroom desk