A story wants to be told — quietly at first. So we sit down with it. We hold it in the same way you hold a memory: carefully, without rushing it. The pencil moves, slow and uncertain, not because we don’t know what to make, but because we want the story to show us. A curve here. A shape there. A line that bends like a river around a knot in the grain. We sketch like we’re listening. Because we are. To the wood. To the hand. To the person this is meant for.