The kettle screamed. It was a high, thin sound, like a bird tearing through the sky. I poured the water. My hands shook. They always shook when the tea was ready. My father sat in the chair by the window. He did not look at me. He looked at the wall. The wallpaper was peeling. Brown strips hung down like dead skin.

I am a man of tools. I know the weight of a hammer. I know the grain of oak. I know the tension of a rope. I do not know how to talk to a ghost. My father was not a ghost. He was flesh and bone. He was dying. The doctors said so. The coughing fit that ended his life had started three days ago. A rattle in the chest. A gray face.

I had left him. I had packed my bag. I had walked out the door. I had not said goodbye. I had not said I loved him. I had only said that the work was done. I had not said that the war had taken my brother. I had not said that I was angry. I was only angry.

The house was cold. The fire was low. I picked up my hammer. I had brought it with me. It was my father’s hammer. The handle was worn smooth by his hands. My hands were rough. They fit the wood. I was a carpenter. He had been a carpenter. We built houses. We built shelves. We built coffins. We built the things that people needed. We did not build words.

I set the hammer on the table. I looked at my father. He was breathing. The sound was wet. It was a terrible sound. It sounded like water dripping in a mine. I knew mines. I had been in the trenches. I had been in the mud. I knew the sound of a man dying. It was the same sound everywhere.

I should have left. I should have walked to the train station. I should have gone to London. I should have gone to the city. The city had noise. The city had life. This house had only dust and death. I stood up. I walked to the door. I put my hand on the knob. The wood was cold. It bit into my palm.

I did not turn. I could not turn. If I turned, I would see his face. I would see the ruin of him. I would have to feel it. I did not want to feel it. I wanted to be a tool. A tool does not feel. A tool only works.

I waited. The clock ticked. The second hand moved. One second. Two seconds. The silence was loud. It pressed against my ears. I heard my own blood. It rushed in my head. It was a drum. It beat fast. It beat hard.

I turned back.

My father was looking at me. His eyes were open. They were white. They were wide. He was not coughing. He was not rattling. He was still. He was looking at me. He was waiting.

I walked to him. I knelt on the floor. The floor was hard. It bit into my knees. I put my hand on his arm. The skin was cold. It was dry. It felt like paper. I shook him. I shook his shoulder. I shook his arm. I did not shout. I did not cry. I just shook him.

He did not move.

I looked at the wall. The peeling strips. I looked at the window. The sky was gray. It was the color of ash. I looked at the hammer. It lay on the table. It was waiting for me. It was ready to work.

I stood up. My legs were stiff. They ached. I picked up the hammer. The weight was familiar. It was heavy. It was solid. I held it tight. I felt the wood in my hand. I felt the metal head. I felt the balance.

I went to the wall. The wallpaper was loose. It hung in ribbons. I put the hammer against it. I did not strike. I just held it there. The metal was cold. The wood was warm.

I thought about the war. I thought about the trenches. The mud was brown. The rain was cold. The men died. They died in the mud. They died in the rain. They did not have hammers. They did not have tools. They had only their hands. They bled. They screamed. They died.

My father had not gone to the war. He had stayed. He had built. He had kept the roof over our heads. He had kept the walls up. He had kept the world out. He had built a shield. It was a wooden shield. It was strong. It was solid.

But the shield was breaking. The war had come to the door. It had come in through the cracks. It had come in through the silence. It had killed my brother. It had killed my father. It was killing the house.

I struck the wall.

The hammer hit the wood. The sound was sharp. It was clear. It rang out in the room. The wallpaper tore. A strip fell down. It hit the floor. It was gray. It was dead.

I struck again. The wood splintered. The hammer went in. I pulled it out. A piece of wood came with it. I threw it on the floor. I struck again. And again. And again.

The wall cracked. A hole opened. It was small. It was dark. I could see through it. I could see the street. I could see the road. The road went to the station. The road went to the city. The road went to life.

I kept striking. The hammer bounced. It felt light. It felt easy. My arm moved. It moved in a circle. It was a dance. It was a pale dance. It was a dance of death.

My father watched. His eyes did not move. He saw the hole. He saw the light. He saw the dust. He saw the wood. He saw me.

I stopped. I breathed. My chest heaved. The air was thick. It smelled of sawdust. It smelled of sweat. It smelled of fear.

I looked at the hole. It was big now. It was a window. It was a door. I could walk through it. I could leave. I could go. I could be free.

I looked at my father. He was still watching. He did not blink. He did not breathe. He was a statue. He was a ghost.

I picked up the hammer again. I looked at the wall. I looked at the hole. I looked at my father.

I did not strike the wall again.

I turned. I walked to the window. I opened it. The cold air came in. It hit my face. It was sharp. It was clean. I breathed it in. It filled my lungs. It burned. It hurt. It was alive.

I closed my eyes. I felt the wind. It moved my hair. It moved my clothes. It moved the dust. It moved the dead things. It blew them away.

I opened my eyes. I looked at my father. He was still. He was gone. He was not there. There was only the chair. There was only the wall. There was only the hole.

I put the hammer down. I left it on the floor. I walked to the door. I opened it. The street was quiet. The sky was gray. The road was long.

I stepped out. I closed the door. The lock clicked. It was a small sound. It was final.

I walked down the street. I did not look back. I did not run. I walked. My feet hit the pavement. They made a sound. It was steady. It was sure.

I walked to the station. I bought a ticket. I went to London. I found a job. I worked. I built. I hammered. I sawed. I planed. I built houses. I built shelves. I built coffins.

I did not talk. I did not cry. I did not remember. I was a tool. I was a machine. I was wood and iron.

Years passed. The war ended. The men came home. Some were broken. Some were dead. Some were whole. I was whole. I was empty.

I had a son. He was small. He was loud. He was like me. He had my hands. He had my eyes. He did not have my silence.

He asked me questions. He asked me about the past. He asked me about the war. He asked me about my father.

I did not answer. I looked at the wood. I looked at the grain. I looked at the knot. I looked at the flaw.

I showed him the wood. I showed him the tool. I showed him the work.

He learned. He built. He became a carpenter. He was good. He was strong. He was like me.

I died. I died in the workshop. I died at the bench. I died with a hammer in my hand. I died with wood under my nails. I died in silence.

My son found me. He did not scream. He did not cry. He picked up the hammer. He put it in the box. He closed the box. He locked it.

He did not open it. He did not look inside. He kept it in the corner. It was a dark place. It was a quiet place.

He was a man of tools. He knew the weight of a hammer. He knew the grain of oak. He knew the tension of a rope. He did not know how to talk to a ghost.

But he knew how to build. He built a house. He built a life. He built a wall. It was strong. It was solid. It was a shield.

The wall stood. The wind blew. The wood held. The house was safe.

I am not there. I am in the wood. I am in the grain. I am in the knot. I am in the silence.

The hammer is still. The wood is quiet. The door is closed.

The dance is over. The pale light is gone. The shadow is long. The work is done.

I am free.