Chapter 7 - Building Foundations
The abandoned warehouse smelled of damp brick and old motor oil, but within a week, volunteer carpenters, electricians, and painters from the neighborhood descended upon it.
Arthur was transformed. The stoop in his spine vanished; his eyes regained the razor focus of a craftsman. Wearing his faded denim overalls, he directed young trade apprentices with quiet precision, demonstrating how to align a blade by ear and assess wood grain by touch.
Clara had her own corner of the workshop, outfitted with miniature wooden building blocks, a high chair, and a bright yellow hard hat that slid perpetually over her eyes. She would inspect wood shavings, bringing curly curls of cedar to Arthur like precious jewels.
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"Good cedar, peanut," Arthur would declare solemnly, tucking the shaving behind his ear.
Orders for custom furniture began trickling in through a website Mark had built. People did not merely want chairs; they wanted artifacts built by hands that understood resilience. Arthur accepted only what he could produce by hand, refusing mass-production offers from furniture conglomerates that sought to exploit his viral fame.
