Wood that remembers the hand that made it.

The workshop on the river road

My grandfather carved doors for the village mosque. My father made the chairs half of Tendaba still eats at. I learned at their bench, sawdust to the knees, before I could spell my name.

We don't flat-pack. We don't veneer chipboard and call it furniture. Every joint is cut by hand and pegged to last past all of us.

To make pieces a family argues over inheriting — not ones they throw away.