The same song had been playing then too.
You think too small, Noah.
You’re meant for this town. I’m not.
Noah had laughed, thinking it was simply another argument.
He hadn’t laughed when Tyler left the next morning for Boston, chasing city lights and a banking job and a version of himself that didn’t include Noah. The whole town had watched it happen.
In Mapleford, heartbreak wasn’t private.
He grabbed a rag and wiped down the table, forcing the memory away. The surface was smooth and warm under his palms, no splinters, no imperfections. A forever table for a couple still holding on after thirty years. He liked that. He liked building things meant to last.
Noah spent time applying the last layer of varnish, and the table gleamed. He stepped back, hands on hips, the way his father always did after finishing a project.
“You did good,” he muttered to himself. “Not bad for a guy who thinks too small.”
He turned off the radio and the silence landed soft and deep. For a second, he imagined what it would be like if someone were here to share the quiet. Not fill it with talk, but exist in it. Someone who’d find the hum of the sander comforting instead of too slow. Someone who’d look at this town and see roots instead of limits.
He huffed out a laugh. “Hopeless,” he told the empty room.
He walked to the front of the shop and flipped the CLOSED sign. His name—Carter Custom Builds—was stenciled neatly across the glass. Below it hung a small flyer:Mapleford Christmas Festival—December 10-24. Volunteers Needed!His handwriting scrawled across the bottom:Call Noah.
When he finally stepped outside, the air was crisp and bright, the kind of late November cold that bit at your nose and smelled faintly of pine. Mapleford was mostly quiet, families tucked inside, smoke curling from chimneys. Soon its main street would be laced with garlands; he’d promised to help with the lighting crew this weekend. Between that, parade planning, and the tree ceremony, he probably wouldn’t see the inside of this workshop again until January. He should feel restless.
Instead, he felt untethered.
The truth was, he liked his solitude, the way mornings started with coffee and ended with the smell of wood shavings instead of the tension of being someone’s disappointment. Sometimes, however, when the nights stretched too quiet, he caught himself setting two mugs on the counter before realizing only one was needed.
Down the street, the community center already had a banner for the Christmas Festival flapping in the breeze: MAPLEFORD LIGHTS UP DECEMBER!
He smiled despite himself. He’d coordinated the festival for six years now, and he knew everything about it, every garland, every plug, every neighbor who’d argue about white lights versus colored ones. He’d pretend to roll his eyes, but secretly, he loved it. It was the one time of year the whole town came together, even if it meant he didn’t sleep for two weeks straight.
He locked up, hurried over to his truck, got in, and started the engine. The seat was cold, the air smelling faintly of coffee and cedar. He caught sight of the empty passenger seat and frowned at it as if it had betrayed him. “Don’t start,” he muttered.
At his parents’ house, the warmth hit him like a punch. His mother’s laugh emanated from the kitchen, he caught his father arguing with the television, and under all of it was the chaos of cousins and casseroles. It was good, familiar. He let himself be hugged, teased, fed too much. But in between bites and laughter, he felt it, the space that used to belong to someone else. The way his mom’s eyes flicked toward him when couples reached for each other’s hands.
After dinner, he helped his dad wash dishes. His father elbowed him gently. “Heard the Petersons’ table’s coming along nice.”
“Almost done.”
“Your mother says you’re working too much.”
“Mom says everyone’s doing everything too much,” Noah said with a small grin.
His dad chuckled. “She’s not wrong.” He rinsed a plate, then lowered his voice. “You ever think about trying again? Dating?”
Noah kept his focus on the dish towel. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
“You’re a good man, son,” his father said. “Don’t let one person make you smaller.”
That hit him hard, but Noah did his best not to react. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When he left later that evening, the town was dusted with early snow, a glittering hint of what was coming. He drove back to his small house at the edge of the pines, the headlights cutting through the white. Inside, the heat kicked on with a sigh, and the silence settled around him like an old coat.
He poured a mug of cocoa, set it down on the table, and ran his hand over the rocking chair he’d made several years ago. The wood glowed with warmth.
He thought about the families gathered tonight, the noise, the warmth, the arms to fall into. He wasn’t jealous, exactly, but aware of how still the air could be when laughter wasn’t filling it.
