It was a trap. He knew it. But the promise of five thousand dollars cash—just for showing up—had a way of smoothing over common sense.
“Build your workshop. We’ll be watching.” desperate amateurs hayden
He stood up, walked to the far wall of the warehouse, and pressed the key of light against a brick that looked no different from any other. The brick dissolved. Beyond it was not the alleyway he expected, but a garden. Moonlit. Silent. And in the center of the garden, a small wooden birdhouse, identical to the ones his father used to make. It was a trap
He didn’t know who “we” were. Maybe ghosts. Maybe a prank. Maybe something stranger. But as he walked out into the cold morning, the finch rode on his shoulder, and for the first time in years, Hayden smiled. “Build your workshop
At hour four, the others gave up. They curled into sleeping bags on the concrete, muttering about scams and wasted weekends. Hayden stayed. He placed his palms flat on the box and closed his eyes. He didn’t think about the money. He thought about his father’s workbench. The smell of sawdust. The way his father would tap a stubborn birdhouse roof three times, then whisper, “There you go, friend. Out you come.”
The warehouse smelled of rust and old rain. Fifteen other "amateurs" stood in flickering fluorescent light: a retired nurse, a kid with a skateboard, a woman in a sequined dress clutching a wrench like a crucifix. No blueprints. No instructions. Just a metal table in the center of the room, and on it, a box.
He could live with that.