The Dream of a Wish

The haze lifted slowly, and Ivaim found himself standing in a familiar place bathed in golden light.

The scent of oak and varnish filled the air, wrapping around him like a long-lost embrace.

Sunlight filtered through cracked windows, painting the workshop floor in warm patches where dust motes danced lazily.

He blinked, taking it all in, his chest tightening with nostalgia.

"I'm... back home?"

The thought lingered in his mind, surreal and dreamlike.

Then he saw them—his father and a younger version of himself, barely fifteen, standing side by side at the worn workbench.

The boy's grip on a block of wood was clumsy, frustration written across his face.

"You're rushing it."

His father said sternly, his voice steady but firm.

"Hold it steady, Ivaim. If you rush, the wood splinters."

He lifted a polished piece, its edges smooth and clean.

"See this? Patience makes perfection."