A folding table sat where the lathe had always stood, its surface scattered with paper coffee cups and a half-eaten charcuterie board. Someone had used the old workbench as a bar, and a ring of red wine had already soaked into the wood Dad sanded smooth by hand.
Then I noticed the pegboard hooks. Empty. All of them.
The hand plane. Gone.
The vise. Unbolted and gone.
The lathe Dad saved three years for. Gone completely, with only four clean squares in the dust where its feet used to sit.
