The old shed behind Mr. Dand's house leaned like an aging man, ribs showing where the slats had warped.
Sunlight leaked through its bones. By late afternoon, they were already ankle-deep in dust.
The crates Artur mentioned sat untouched, their corners softened from years of use. The sun hung lower now, casting long lines through the wooden slats.
Artur kicked open the shed door and leaned inside. "We'll need these sorted before tomorrow."
Jay squinted at the stack. "Sorted how? They look like... crates."
"Check for cracks," Artur said simply. "Loose planks, missing bottoms. You'd be surprised how many we've patched over the years."
Jay walked in, picked one up, turned it over once, then frowned. "This one smells like old onions."
Billy knelt by the pile, hands brushing along the grain. "That's probably the one Mr. Dand used last fall."
Jay sat on an overturned bucket with exaggerated care. "So this is what staying in the village gets me."
