The hardware store aisle smelled sharply of sawdust and rubber, and the fluorescent lights hummed faintly above. Cara shuffled through rows of screws, half-listening as her dad explained the difference between wood and sheet metal fasteners. She nodded absently, her mind far from the conversation. Then, the clerk approached—an older man with a smudged name tag reading “Frank.”
“Need help finding something?” he asked with a gravelly voice. Before Cara could shrug him off, her dad jumped in, detailing their project: a new birdhouse for the backyard.
Frank’s face softened. “Used to make those with my daughter. She hated sanding the edges but loved picking the colors.” He chuckled, tapping a bright blue-painted screw bin. “Still got her favorite color here.”
Cara blinked, suddenly aware of her father’s easy smile and the hopeful gleam in his eye. She noticed his hands—calloused, steady—carefully cradling a box of nails. She hadn’t joined him on a project in years.
“Let’s grab the blue paint,” she murmured. Her dad’s quiet “okay” carried more weight than she’d expected.
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