Grigore had spent forty years as a carpenter, but he had never been able to afford a solid roof for his own home. His house, perched on the edge of the Carpathian foothills, had a patchwork of tin and cheap bitumen. Every autumn rain sounded like a threat.
When the last shingle was laid, the sun hit the roof like a struck bell. The oak glowed a deep, fiery orange—more beautiful than any tile or sheet metal. scandura stejar dedeman
Andrei smiled. “My first salary. From the factory. The old roof comes down tomorrow.” Grigore had spent forty years as a carpenter,