James Jovel's calloused hands worked deftly on the wooden chair, sanding its edges until the surface felt as smooth as polished stone. The scent of freshly cut cedar filled the small workshop, mingling with the faint aroma of sawdust that clung to the air. James paused, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his hazel eyes scanning the intricate design he had carved onto the chair's backrest.
It was a piece he was proud of. The floral carvings intertwined seamlessly, giving the chair an air of elegance that belied its rustic origins. This chair was for Mrs Grace, a longtime client who trusted James's craftsmanship implicitly. She had given him creative freedom, a rarity, and James had poured everything he had into making it perfect.
Still, as he stepped back to admire his work, a pang of unease crept into his chest. The chair wasn't the problem; the invoice lying on his workbench was.
The paper mocked him with its squiggly lines and symbols. To James, it might as well have been written in an alien language. His stomach tightened as he picked up the pen beside it, its weight far heavier than it should have been.
He took a deep breath and tried to steady his hand. The client's name was "Mrs Grace," simple enough to remember, but the other details; the price, the delivery date were trickier. He scribbled numbers that he hoped made sense, his heart pounding with each stroke. The pen paused, hesitated, then continued with a flourish that felt more like guesswork than certainty.
James stepped back, staring at the invoice as if willing it to make sense. He couldn't afford to let anyone know.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke his concentration. He barely had time to put the invoice away before the workshop door swung open, revealing Jackson Jovel, his younger brother.
Jackson looked every inch the professional, from his tailored navy-blue suit to the expensive watch gleaming on his wrist. His polished shoes clicked against the floor as he walked in, and James's dusty workshop seemed to shrink under his confident stride.
"You're still hiding in here, huh?" Jackson asked, his tone a mix of mockery and exasperation. He gestured to the half-finished pieces scattered around the room. "Same old James. How's the world of sawdust treating you?"
James clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of the workbench to steady himself. "What do you want, Jackson?"
"What do I want?" Jackson's eyebrows shot up, as if the question were ridiculous. "I'm just checking on you, big brother. Making sure you're still… alive."
"I'm fine," James replied curtly.
"Are you?" Jackson's gaze swept over the workshop, lingering on the invoice James had hastily shoved aside. His smirk faded. "You still can't do it, can you?"
"Do what?" James snapped, though he knew exactly what Jackson meant.
"You know what I mean." Jackson folded his arms, his voice softening. "You can't keep going like this, James. Sooner or later, someone's going to figure it out."
James turned away, his shoulders stiff. "Get out, Jackson."
"You're holding yourself back," Jackson pressed, ignoring the command. "Don't you want more than this? Don't you want a better life?"
"I said get out." James's voice was low, dangerous, but his hands trembled.
Jackson sighed, his frustration evident. "You think this is about me trying to embarrass you? It's not. I'm trying to help you, James. Whether you like it or not." He turned on his heel, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening. James sank onto a stool, his head in his hands. Jackson's words echoed in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. He hated how easily his brother could get under his skin.
James stayed in the workshop long after the sun had set, his only companions were the tools and the faint hum of the night. When he finally left, the streets were quiet, illuminated by the soft glow of streetlights.
As he walked toward the town square, he noticed a small crowd gathered near the community center. A hand-painted sign caught his eye:
"Free Adult Literacy Classes. Led by Flora John. No Registration Required."
James froze, his feet rooted to the spot. The letters on the sign blurred together, but the message was clear enough.
"Thinking about joining?"
The voice startled him. He turned to see a woman standing nearby, her arms full of books. She was younger than he expected, with warm brown eyes and an open, inviting smile.
"I was just passing by," James muttered, feeling an instinctive need to retreat.
"That's how it starts," the woman said, her smile never wavering. "Passing by, then thinking about it, and before you know it, you're inside."
James managed a weak chuckle. "I don't think it's for me."
"It's for everyone," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "We all have to start somewhere."
Her words lingered in his mind long after he had walked away.
The following days were a blur of routine. James threw himself into his work, trying to ignore the growing sense of inadequacy that seemed to shadow him everywhere he went. But the cracks in his carefully constructed life were becoming harder to ignore.
A mix-up with a client nearly cost him a job when he misunderstood a written note. And then there was the incident with a young boy at the hardware store, who had innocently asked why James didn't read the labels out loud like other adults. The question had left James flustered, his cheeks burning with shame.
One evening, James sat alone in his workshop, staring at the unopened flyer Flora had given him. The edges were creased from being folded and unfolded, as if he'd been debating its significance.
His gaze drifted to the chair he had finished for Mrs Grace, the intricate design glowing softly in the moonlight. It was a reminder of what he could achieve when he put his mind to something.
Taking a deep breath, James slipped the flyer into his pocket. Tomorrow, he would take the first step.
For the first time in years, he felt a glimmer of hope