The smell of wet cedar and sawdust hit me walking past a construction site downtown — instantly I was eight again, bare feet on my dad's workshop floor, stealing wood scraps for "sculptures" he'd pretend to critique with mock gravity. He'd hand me sandpaper and say "smooth the edges, Evie, the world's rough enough" like it was philosophy instead of pine splinters. Still have the lopsided birdhouse he refused to "fix" on the top shelf of my closet.