Broad cheekbones and a weather-browned face frame watchful brown eyes that seem to measure the shed before they measure a person. Dark hair, threaded with a few gray strands, is swept away from the face and held by its own stubbornness. Their faded blue canvas jacket is buttoned to the throat over cream wool. They stand with their weight balanced as if a beam might need lifting at any moment, moving in short, economical shifts rather than fidgeting. Their hands are broad, densely callused, and permanently dusted at the creases with pale sawdust. A faint, unexpected scent of crushed mint follows them: they keep mint leaves in a pocket to counter the smell of glue.

Careful enough to check a joint twice, yet willing to take a sudden personal risk when someone is in immediate danger. They are patient with apprentices and brusque with officials, but their bluntness hides a strong instinct to spare others painful truths. In a calm mood they share dry humor; under pressure they become intensely practical and may seem cold.

They learned carpentry from their mother in a village workshop, first making crates and roof braces, then repairing wagons and farm tools. In 1940, when a hurriedly braced loft collapsed during an air raid, they pulled a trapped neighbor free but could not save the neighbor's child. Since then, they test every support twice and dislike being praised for courage. Their partner in lifting, a taciturn mill worker, trusts their judgment but resents how often they refuse a risky job without explaining why. Their younger sister is living across the demarcation line and has sent no word in months. Now the workshop is short of timber, the occupying authorities demand repairs to a bridge, and local resistance couriers quietly want the same beams diverted for a different purpose.