Page 89 of Till Orc Do Us Part
At first, they watch.
Locals pause between swings of their own hammers, between carrying beams and sanding boards. I feel their eyes—curious, measuring.
The orc who nearly razed their home, now shoulder to shoulder with their children.
With them.
Some nod.
Some smile.
A few say nothing at all.
That, too, is earned.
And will be.
By midafternoon, the rhythm of the work takes me.
Jamie hums sea shanties as he passes me nails. Cass barks instructions like a drill sergeant. Even Mrs. Calhoun arrives, cane in one hand, a basket of fresh scones in the other.
“You look like you been here all your life,” she tells me, eyes twinkling.
“Perhaps now I am,” I reply.
She pats my arm, leaves me two scones. “Keep buildin’, giant.”
Later, a grizzled carpenter claps my back between beams. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
I meet his gaze. “Neither did I.”
By dusk, the shack’s bones stand stronger. New beams gleam against salt-stained walls. Floorboards stripped clean, ready for varnish. Lantern hooks line the rafters. Shelves wait to be built, worn planks turned by loving hands.
Jamie reads to me between tasks—his voice bright with pride, the words from his finished story now worn soft from retelling.
“And then the Green Giant smiled.”
He looks up. “That part’s the best.”
I crouch beside him, voice low. “Because the work was worth it.”
He nods solemnly. “Yeah.”
The sun sinks toward the sea, painting the sky in bruised violets and gold. The wind sharpens. Most of the volunteers drift toward the gathered tables—dinner shared beneath strings of lights.
I remain.
The fish shack hums with silence now, empty save for me.
I stand alone beneath its new beams, fingers trailing the fresh grain of the wood.
The air smells of cedar and sea and the faint ghost of fish long gone.
Salt stings my throat.
Not sweat.
Not this time.
