Lily pressed her face to the fence between her yard and the workshop next door. An older man sanded a board, and sawdust curled through the golden afternoon light. She tapped the fence with her wooden spoon.
She found him on the porch and held out a crumpled paper with a crooked house drawn on it. He smiled and held the door open. "Come on in," he said.
Inside, the floor was covered in curled wood shavings that crunched like potato chips under her shoes. She tiptoed past piles of carved wood and hanging hand tools.
He handed her a small board and a piece of sandpaper. Back and forth, he showed her. The wood went from rough to smooth under her palms.
She tried fast and made a deep scratch. The wood looked like bumpy tree bark now. She dropped the sandpaper with a thud.
He guided her hand again. Slow. Steady. The scratch disappeared and the wood glowed like polished honey.
She set the board down carefully and touched the edge — smooth as a river stone. He pointed to a shelf where dozens of wooden birds sat in rows.
That evening, Lily walked around the house and stood at the fence near the quiet girl's window. She had a small wooden bird in her pocket.
She pressed the wooden bird through the fence slats. The quiet girl's hand reached out from the darkness and closed around it.
The quiet girl held the bird to the light and smiled. Outside the fence, Lily waved. The wooden bird caught the last gold of sunset.
From then on, Lily visited the workshop every afternoon. She learned to sand slow and steady, and the wood always glowed in the end.
And every time she finished a new bird, she walked it around the house and slid it through the fence — just for her new friend.