The technologist sighed.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Raw collection?”
She looked toward the pile.
Then at the provenance.
“Maybe tens of thousands.”
The boy’s mouth opened.
His mother sat down.
The sawyer remained still.
The technologist continued immediately.
“Do not hear only that.”
The boy looked at her.
“A collector might pay high for provenance.”
“A production buyer might discount heavily for unknown internal defects.”
“Processed into instrument sets over years, the gross value could be much higher.”
“Processing also costs money and destroys value if done badly.”
“Some pieces may be worth little.”
“Some may be exceptional.”
“Could it be a hundred thousand?”
the boy whispered.
She smiled.
“Children love round numbers.”
“Could it?”
“Eventually?”
“Possible.”
“Guaranteed?”
“No.”
“Likely?”
“I don’t know.”
The boy looked disappointed.
The sawyer laughed.
“You were hoping she’d say a million.”
The boy’s cheeks reddened.
“No.”
Everyone laughed.
He had absolutely been hoping for a million.
A week later, something happened that frightened his mother more than any valuation.
A stranger called their house.
Not a buyer they knew.
Not anyone from the mill.
He knew about the burl collection.
He offered twenty thousand dollars cash.
Immediate pickup.
No inspection.
The boy’s mother asked where he got her number.
The man avoided answering.
She hung up.
Another call came the next day.
Then an email.
Then a message to the boy’s mother through social media.
The mill story had spread.
Someone had taken a photograph before the buyer left that first day.
The image showed the cut burl.
The boy in the background.
The brass tube.
It had circulated among woodworking groups.
Rare old-growth figured maple.
Vermont.
Hidden provenance.
People became interested.
Then predatory.
The boy’s mother stopped taking calls.
The sawyer moved the twelve triangle-marked burls into a locked storage room.
A security camera went up.
The boy hated that.
“They’re wood.”
The sawyer replied:
“They’re wood people think might be money.”
The distinction mattered.
The boy’s mother contacted an attorney.
The attorney reviewed ownership.
The farm auction had sold the lot legally.
No reservation.
No heir claim.
The grandfather had apparently left the wood at the farm decades earlier under an informal storage agreement.
Why?
Nobody knew exactly.
The old farmer believed the grandfather’s own barn became too damp and crowded.
The pieces stayed.
Everyone forgot.
Then the grandfather, knowing the farm would eventually be sold, had marked the auction notice.