The Winter Hours

Nate took the notice for the second bay out of his workshop window on the first Monday in August.

I watched him fold it once, then again. The paper made a small, dry sound. Across the yard the neighbouring unit stood open while its tenant packed the last shelves into a van.

“You don’t have to throw it away,” I said.

“I’m not.”

He put it in a drawer beneath the bench. Not a dramatic burial. Not a promise that the dream would return in a bigger, better form once the story had rewarded him for being sensible. He was keeping a thing he’d wanted and choosing not to do it now.

I respected him too much to tell him it was for the best.

“I’m sorry it hurts,” I said.

“So am I.”

He closed the drawer and turned toward the smaller plan on the bench.

We had worked…