The hardware store smelled of sawdust and metal, a mix that clung to Adam’s jacket as he searched for the right-sized wrench. His mother had always fixed things when he was a kid—leaky pipes, wobbly chairs, his scraped knees. Now, with her gone, it was his turn.
A clerk, an older man with calloused hands, watched him hesitate. “First time doing it yourself?” he asked, a knowing grin on his face.
Adam exhaled. “Yeah. My mom used to handle this kind of stuff.”
The man nodded. “She taught you well, I bet.”
Adam looked down at his hands, fingers tightening around the wrench. Maybe she had. Maybe repairing things wasn’t just about knowing how—it was about trying.
As he left the store, the cold air stung his cheeks, but warmth settled in his chest. For the first time in weeks, he felt capable. Maybe not of fixing everything, but of starting.
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