Chapter 3

“Alright, alright,” he mumbled, gently lifting her. “I suppose you need a name.”

He carried her downstairs, set her in a box lined with an old flannel shirt, and put out a saucer of milk. She lapped at it eagerly, her tiny tail a flag of contentment. While she ate, Dale started coffee and looked out the window. Skye’s car was gone—she had an early shift. The street was quiet, the morning light slanting through the leaves of the maples that lined Grove Court.

By the time he had finished his coffee, the kitten was asleep again, curled into a perfect circle. Dale felt an unfamiliar sense of purpose. He had a creature depending on him, fragile and new. It was terrifying. It was also, he admitted, something he needed.

He spent the morning in his workshop, sanding the armrests of a Victorian settee, but his mind kept drifting to the rocking chair. It sat in his garage now, waiting, its broken rocker a problem he had not yet solved. He had promised Skye he would restore it, and he intended to keep that promise.

At noon, a knock came at his front door. He opened it to find Chloe, her hair a wild tangle, holding a crumpled piece of paper. “Mr. Dale! I drew a picture of the kitten. Can I see her?”

He stepped aside, and she dashed in, skidding to a stop in front of the box. “She’s so tiny! What’s her name?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“You should name her Peanut,” Chloe said earnestly. “Because she’s small and brown like a peanut.”

The kitten looked neither brown nor particularly peanut-like, but Dale found himself nodding. “Peanut it is.”

Chloe stayed for an hour, playing with the kitten and peppering him with questions about his work. He showed her a few of his tools, explained how he repaired cracks, and let her watch as he applied a thin layer of wax to a table leg. She was fascinated, her eyes wide as she took in every detail.

“Do you ever get lonely, Mr. Dale?” she asked suddenly.

The question caught him off guard. “Sometimes,” he admitted.

“Me too. But now you have Peanut. And Skye.” She said the name as if it were a secret. “I see you two talking a lot. My mom says grown-ups need friends too.”

Dale felt a warmth spread through his chest. “Your mom is right.”

When Chloe finally left, promising to visit Peanut again soon, Dale found himself looking forward to the evening. Skye had texted him: “Shift ends at 7. Can I come over to work on the chair? I’ll bring pizza.”

He replied: “Deal.”

She arrived at quarter past seven, still in her scrubs, the scent of antiseptic clinging to her. She set a pizza box on his kitchen counter and collapsed into a chair. “Donor,” she said, pointing at the pizza. “One of the nurses ordered too many. Also, I’m dead.”

“Rough day?” Dale asked, getting plates.

“Three trauma cases in five hours. A car accident, a fall from a ladder, and a kid who swallowed a button battery. The kid is fine, but the parents…” She shook her head. “You see the worst moments of people’s lives.”

Dale set a plate in front of her. “How do you not let it bury you?”

Skye took a slice and chewed thoughtfully. “You compartmentalize. You focus on the task, on the mechanics. And then you come home and try to forget. But it’s not always easy.” She looked at him, her eyes soft. “That’s why I’m glad for this. The chair. It gives me something to do that isn’t about blood and chaos.”

After they ate, they moved to the garage. The rocking chair sat under the work light, its broken rocker still detached. Dale had already fashioned a new piece of oak, shaped to match the original curve. He showed her how he would fit it, explaining the process of steam-bending and clamping.

“I could watch you work for hours,” Skye said, leaning against a workbench. “You’re so calm. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“It’s just patience,” Dale said, running his hand along the grain. “And knowing that wood is forgiving. It can be reshaped, repaired. People are harder.”

“Are you talking about yourself?”

He paused. “Maybe.”

Skye came closer, her footsteps quiet on the concrete floor. “You’re not broken, Dale. You’re just… still figuring out how to fit back together.”

He looked at her, and for a moment, the words seemed too large for the space between them. He wanted to tell her that she was the first person in years to make him feel like it was possible. Instead, he said, “The chair will be ready in about a week. I’ll need to let the glue set, then add the finish.”

“I can wait,” she said softly.

They worked side by side for another hour, sanding the new rocker and applying the first coat of linseed oil. The kitten—Peanut—had wandered into the garage and now perched on a stack of lumber, watching them with sleepy curiosity.

At nine, Skye yawned. “I should go. Early shift tomorrow.” She paused at the door, looking back at him. “Thank you. For this. For being a friend.”

“Thank you for the pizza,” he said, and she laughed.

After she left, Dale carried Peanut upstairs and sat at his desk. He pulled out his notebook and wrote:

"She says I'm not broken / just waiting to be mended / but the glues of the heart are slow to cure / and I am still holding the pieces together with my own hands."

He read the lines twice, then closed the book. Outside, the moon was rising over the rooftops. He watched Skye’s light go out in her bedroom window, and then he turned off his own.

The next few days settled into a rhythm. Dale worked during the day, restoring pieces for clients, while Peanut explored the workshop, getting into sawdust and battering wayward screws across the floor. In the evenings, Skye would come over when her shifts allowed—sometimes for an hour, sometimes longer. They would work on the chair together, talk about their days, and gradually, the walls Dale had built began to show hairline cracks.

On Wednesday, a familiar car pulled up in front of his house. It was a sleek black sedan, and the man who stepped out was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair slicked back, his smile a little too wide. Marcus Thorne.

Dale had not seen Marcus in nearly a year. The man had been a client once, commissioning a restoration of a Chippendale highboy. He had paid on time, but there had been something about him—a slickness, a sense that he was always calculating the angles.

“Dale, my friend!” Marcus called, striding up the walkway. “How long has it been? You look well. The isolation agrees with you.”

“Marcus,” Dale said, not inviting him in. “What brings you here?”

“Business. And pleasure, of course. I have a proposition for you. Something big.” Marcus leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m in possession of a piece—a rare one. A Louis XV commode, needs some love. Top-dollar restoration. The client is willing to pay triple your usual rate.”

Dale’s interest flickered, but so did his caution. “Where did you get it?”

“Let’s just say a dealer I know found it in an estate sale. It’s legitimate, I assure you. But there’s a catch—the timeline. He needs it in three weeks. I thought of you immediately.”

Three weeks for a piece like that? It was possible, but tight. And Marcus’s deals always came with hidden strings. “I’ll think about it,” Dale said.

“Don’t think too long. This opportunity won’t wait.” Marcus handed him a card with a number. “Call me when you’re ready. Oh, and Dale—it’s good to see you getting out more. I noticed you’ve been spending time with that nurse next door. Good for you.”

Dale stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Marcus’s smile widened. “I’m just observant. See you soon.”

He drove away, leaving Dale unsettled. How long had Marcus been watching? And what exactly was he proposing?

That night, when Skye came over, Dale told her about the visit. She listened carefully, her expression neutral. “It sounds too good to be true,” she said. “And you’re wary of him. Trust your instincts.”

“I don’t know,” Dale said, rubbing the back of his neck. “The money would be nice. And it’s a legitimate piece.”

“But the timeline is tight, and you don’t know where it really came from. Just be careful.” She placed a hand on his arm. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

The gesture was simple, but it sent a ripple through him. He covered her hand with his own. “I’ll be careful.”

The next day, Dale called Marcus and agreed to take the job. He told himself it was just business, but as he hung up, he felt a knot of unease in his stomach.

Meanwhile, at the hospital, Skye was having a difficult shift. Her mentor, Dr. Eleanor Vance, pulled her aside after a particularly grueling code. The patient—a middle-aged man with a massive heart attack—had died, despite their efforts. Skye was shaken.

“You did everything right,” Dr. Vance said, her voice calm and steady. “Sometimes the body just gives out.”

“I know,” Skye said, her eyes wet. “But it still feels like a failure.”

“That feeling will never go away. But you learn to carry it. And you learn to find balance.” Dr. Vance looked at her with kind, tired eyes. “How are you, Skye? Really?”

“I’m… okay. I’ve been spending time with my neighbor. He’s restoring my grandmother’s rocking chair.”

Dr. Vance smiled. “That’s good. Connection is important. Don’t let this job consume you. You’re a brilliant nurse, but you need a life outside these walls.”

“I’m trying,” Skye said.

“Keep trying. It’s worth it.”

After her shift, Skye drove home, the words echoing in her mind. She thought about Dale, about his quiet strength and his wounded heart. She thought about the rocking chair, and what it meant to let someone help you heal.

That evening, they sat in his workshop, the chair now nearly complete. The new rocker was fitted and glued, the finish applied. It gleamed in the light, smooth and warm.

“It’s beautiful,” Skye said, running her fingers over the wood.

“Almost done. I just need to buff it one more time.” Dale picked up a soft cloth. “But I can do that tomorrow.”

“No, let me.” She took the cloth from his hands and knelt beside the chair, her movements careful, reverent. He watched her, seeing the concentration on her face, the way she treated the wood as if it were precious.

When she finished, she looked up at him. “Thank you, Dale. For giving this a second life.”

“It’s what I do,” he said, but his voice was thick.

She stood and faced him. “You do it with everything, don’t you? You see things that are broken and you try to fix them.”

“Maybe I do.”

Skye stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the antiseptic on her, mixed with something floral. “What about yourself? Are you trying to fix that too?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

“You start by letting someone help,” she said, and she kissed him.

It was a soft kiss, hesitant, as if both of them were afraid. But it was real. Dale felt his heart lurch, felt the walls he had built tremble. He pulled back, breathing hard.

“Skye…”

“I know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I know you have your reasons to be scared. So do I. But I don’t want to miss this.”

He looked at her, at the earnestness in her eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

“I don’t want to miss it either,” he said.

They stood there, hands intertwined, the rocking chair gleaming beside them. Outside, the stars came out over Grove Court. And inside, something fragile and new began to grow.

Later that night, Dale sat at his desk, Peanut curled in his lap. He wrote:

"A kiss is just a touch of lips / but yours felt like a door opening / into a room I thought I had sealed shut. / I am stepping through, trembling, / hoping the floor holds."

He closed the notebook and looked out the window. Skye’s light was still on. He watched it for a long time, thinking about Marcus, about the rocking chair, about the kiss. The future was uncertain, but for the first time, that didn’t scare him as much as it used to.

He had a friend. He had a kitten. And he had a reason to hope.

Tomorrow, he would finish the chair. Tomorrow, he might call Marcus back to discuss the details of the job. Tomorrow, he would see Skye again.

But tonight, he let himself simply feel. The warmth of the small creature in his lap, the tick of the clock, the soft hum of the world outside. It was enough.

And in her house next door, Skye sat at her own window, a cup of tea in her hands, watching his silhouette. She smiled, a tired but genuine smile, and allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something beautiful.