The Restorationist
He is a fiction of the workshop. He exists only in the friction between sandpaper and hickory. He is not a public figure; he is a mechanism for removing rust. He occupies the hours between the noise of the day and the silence of the night, negotiating with entropy in a garage.
Do not ask for a name. The name is not the point. The point is that the steel was dead, and now it is not.
The maker is a detail. The edge is the argument.
