Mateo's Fear

The air in Mateo’s workshop always smelled of sawdust and linseed oil, a comforting, familiar scent that usually grounded me. Tonight, however, it felt thick, suffocating, as if the very wood beams were holding their breath. Mateo, usually so pragmatic, his hands calloused from years of shaping wood, looked unnervingly pale, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of his workbench. He hadn’t said a word since I’d found him staring out the window into the deepening twilight.

“Mateo?” I tried again, my voice softer this time. “What is it? You’re scaring me.”

He finally turned, his eyes wide and unfocused, like a man trying to recall a nightmare that refused to fade. “Daniel… it was… it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. Or imagined.”