The boy nodded.
The bearded buyer returned occasionally.
Never again made a low offer.
One afternoon, he brought his teenage daughter.
She wanted to learn furniture making.
The boy was thirteen by then.
Taller.
Still wearing his grandfather’s cap even though it barely fit.
The buyer’s daughter looked at the famous first burl.
“Dad says he tried to cheat you.”
Her father closed his eyes.
The boy smiled.
“He did.”
The girl turned.
“You said you made a bad offer.”
“I was simplifying.”
“You tried to cheat an eleven-year-old?”
The sawyer walked away laughing.
The buyer looked toward the ceiling.
“I have made mistakes.”
His daughter stared.
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes.”
The boy said:
“He came back.”
She looked toward him.
“That fixes it?”
“No.”
The boy thought.
“It changes what happened after.”
The buyer looked at him.
The boy had learned that from somewhere.
Maybe his mother.
Maybe the sawyer.
Maybe simply growing older.
The buyer’s daughter spent summers apprenticing at the mill.
Years later, she would become a respected furniture maker.
She used one small offcut from the boy’s collection to make a box.
Not expensive.
Beautiful.
She gave it to the boy’s mother.
Inside the lid she burned a line:
The outside is allowed to be ugly.
The mother cried.
The boy pretended not to.
At fourteen, he finally asked to cut one burl himself.
The sawyer said no.
The boy became furious.
“I know the machine.”
“You know what it does.”
“I’ve watched for three years.”
“Watching is not operating.”
“You let the apprentice use it.”
“He’s nineteen.”
“That’s not fair.”
The sawyer shrugged.
“Machines don’t care about fairness either.”
The exact sentence his grandfather used.
The boy froze.
The old sawyer smiled.
“Your grandfather taught me too.”
The boy stared.
“What?”
The sawyer looked toward the band saw.
“Before you were born.”
“He trained me on this machine.”
The boy had never known.
The sawyer continued:
“He was better than me.”
“Then why didn’t he own a mill?”
“Didn’t want one.”
“Why?”
“He liked solving problems more than owning them.”
The boy looked around.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
The boy groaned.
Adults.
Always hiding entire histories behind questions children did not know existed.
The sawyer eventually trained him formally at sixteen.
Safety first.
Machine off.
Blade guards.
Push systems.
Feed pressure.
No loose sleeves.
No shortcuts.