Shane Jones stood at his woodworking bench, carefully shaping a cherrywood box for his daughter Marcy’s birthday. The familiar scent of sawdust and linseed oil filled the garage, a peaceful contrast to the demanding career he had left behind years earlier.
At forty-eight, his beard carried more gray than brown, and life outside the military had softened his appearance. But experience had taught him to notice details other people missed.
« Dad? »
Marcy stood in the doorway.
Voir la suite dans la page suivante:
