Luke
The Woodsman
There’s a silence in the wilds of an ageless forrest that no man can cut through—simply alone with timber, and thoughts that haven’t been said aloud.
In the shed, among those ancient tools and memories, he sets his shirt aside—not from heat, but to feel something real. The cold bite of corrugated steel, the rough wood beneath his palms—these are truths he can hold.
This old bow saw rests in his hands like a question. It doesn’t hum like machines; it sings, if you move with care. I’m not just fixing a broken frame. He is sifting through splinters of myself.
Out here, it becomes a habit of breaking down more than wood: old stories, quiet resentments, the weight once thought as strength. In this weathered shop, there’s no audience. Just breath. Just the rhythm of progress.
