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Outside, the truck’s engine fades.

The gravel sound disappears into the trees.

She’s gone.

My heart squeezes again, harder this time, like it’s trying to convince me to chase her.

I press down, tracing the next petal deeper, letting the burn bite into the grain.

Because this is what I do instead of begging.

This is what I do instead of calling out.

I burn my feelings into wood and pretend it’s art—not confession.

The shape grows under my hand, line by line, petal by petal.

And even before it’s finished, I already know what it will be.

Not a willow.

Not a sunset.

Something brighter.

Something that turns toward the light even when it’s surrounded by shadows.

I keep working until the outline is unmistakable, until the wood holds the shape like it was always meant to.

I pause, breath loud inside the mask, and stare down at what I’ve done.

A new signature.

A new problem.

Because I didn’t start something different today by accident.

I started it because of her.

And no matter how fast I shove her off my mountain, she’s already lodged herself somewhere under my skin—rooted deep, stubborn as winter.

“Fuck,” I growl.

It’s right there—stark and raw and impossibly bright against the pale grain—spreading across the entire three-foot surface of the table like a confession I never meant to make.

The petals flare outward, bold and unashamed.

The center is dark and dense, burned deep, the lines tight as if I tried to control it and failed.

And the damn thing looks like it’s staring back at me.

I pace the length of the workshop, boots thudding on the plank floor, hands flexing like I can shake the feeling out.

Like I can outrun it.

I can’t.

Because it’s too late to change it now.