Today I worked on a desk that is almost a hundred years old.
It was commissioned in the late 1920s or early ’30s by my grandfather, for his sons. One of them was my father. It’s made of walnut, built in a workshop somewhere in Muntenia, in a time when objects were meant to last.

This desk has travelled through three generations, through houses, wars, relocations, and decades of quiet persistence. My grandfather touched it, then my father, and now it’s the surface where I write.
There’s a small crack on the top — old wood has its own memory. I don’t hide it; it’s part of the story.

When I rest my hand on it, I feel a steady line stretching back through the people who came before me. Not nostalgia, but orientation.
A reminder that I’m not starting from nothing.
That I belong to a thread that continued, even when lives became complicated or broke apart.

This desk is not furniture. It’s a witness. It’s the only family object that still works alongside me, almost a century later.

The photo will come later.
I just wanted to write this down first — a note to myself, at a time when I need to remember that some things do remain steady in this world.

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