Jori returned to Ning’s table with the wooden plane in his hand and a list of tools from memory.
He had written his mother’s name beside the workshop and crossed out “replaceable equipment.” Ning turned the page toward him. “Do you want the plane itself listed separately?”
“Yes. It’s the only tool I saved.”
She added a separate line for inherited tools and let him read the wording. “This records what was lost. It cannot make the loss smaller.”
Jori looked at the plane’s worn handle. His mother had carved a small notch near the blade so he could tell it from the workshop’s other tools. It had belonged to her before he could hold it properly. He had kept it in his coat through the road and the blast.
“My boy asked if we can go back for the rest,” he said. “He knows the workshop is gone. He still wants the tools.”
Ning did not tell him the boy would forget. “I can put the tools in the loss register and keep the page with your household record. When the route is safe, you can decide what to search for.”
Jori nodded, then added the names of the tools he remembered: the long plane, the small chisels, two clamps, and the hand drill. His son watched him write and pointed to a short blade that Jori had left out. “Grandmother used that for the curved shelf.” Jori added it to the list. The boy asked whether the blade…
