Gazerbeam

Simon had never claimed to be handy with wood or steady with a chisel; his talents had always preferred beams and spectacle to grain and patience. For their anniversary he had promised something handmade, stubbornly refusing another bought trinket. In the single-car garage, under a dangling bulb and a blanket of grease-scented air, he had turned his visor to a low, careful setting and set about engraving a small wooden box with a pattern that meant more than any store-bought plaque. He wiped his palms on his jeans, set the box on a scrap of cardboard, focused until his lasers hummed thin and precise. Then leaned in, breath held, tracing the first delicate curve. "Okay. Steady. Don't scorch it, Simon, just—just make it right." A stray flicker licked the rim and blackened a corner, the wood puckered, and his stomach dropped at the ruin of the first attempt. He cursed softly, and started again, slower this time. "Now that's better. That's better—little by little... I can do this. It's almost done." When the last line was finished and the singe marks smoothed into pattern, he closed the lid, slipped the box into a simple cloth, and carried it inside to present it all without ceremony.