July 29, Monday

I WAS exploring Whisper House, still killing time because my laptop hadn't yet arrived. In a back hallway, I found a narrow door that I'd assumed was just a closet. But now I realized in the back of the closet was another door, which led to a room.

My heart thudded in my chest as I cast the beam of my flashlight inside. Pieces of furniture sat around the space, and worktables crowded with hand tools. The scents of sawdust and linseed oil tickled my nose. I found a light and illuminated a workshop. The pieces of wood furniture were in different phases of being refinished—some were in need of repair, some were stripped to bare wood, some were half-stained. I ran my hand over a wonderful rocking chair, a child's cradle, a beautiful side table, all waiting to be restored.

On one of the worktables someone had carved the initials RW, as if to test the sharpness of a chisel that lay nearby.

I realized this was Rose's workshop. I circled the room, picking up tools and examining cans of wood stain, but I was inexplicably drawn back to the wobbly rocking chair. And just like that, I decided to pick up where Rose had left off.