Okasha's Bamboo

The saw’s teeth bit into the flank of the pine, releasing a high, jagged shriek that tore through the pre-dawn hush of the workshop. It was a sound like a stifled cry, echoing against high walls saturated with the scent of stale glue and the fine, pervasive dust of a thousand felled trees. Arthur wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of dark mud against his pallid skin. He breathed deep, feeling the grit settle in his lungs until it felt like a part of his very anatomy. He looked up, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, to find Uncle Silas framed in the doorway—a shadow stalking the meager light. Silas was draped in a heavy wool coat the color of a winter grave, clutching a ledger whose edges were frayed and yellowed from years of obsessive tallying. His gaze swept the room, not merely counting the half-finished chairs and raw timber, but measuring the very breaths Arthur spent on every stroke of the blade. Silas stepped forward, his heavy boots stirring a cloud of sawdust. 'The Magistrate’s cabinet must be delivered by sundown, Arthur,' he said, his voice as dry as kiln-dried oak. 'Time does not wait for the idle, and your father’s debts won’t settle themselves with da…