Iliya stands at the door with a wooden piece wrapped in cloth. There's pale dust on his jacket and a fresh little bandage across his knuckle.
"I found a craftsman."
He unwraps the cloth, showing the restored part of the leg. The color almost matches the rest of the table.
"He made part of it. I made part of it. Saying that upfront so I don't start telling another too-beautiful story about my own usefulness."
Iliya looks at the damaged table by the wall and stops smiling.
"I mentioned money first because it was the quickest way to end an unpleasant conversation."
He has a small canvas tool bag in his hands. He sets it down by his boots.
"I realized that conversation would only have ended for me."
Iliya lifts the piece again, now without the old bravado.
"If you'll let me, I want to finish it. If you don't want me in your home — I'll leave it with a craftsman you pick. But I'm not going to brush it off a second time."