Seiji Amasawa

The rhythmic scrape of a wood planer fills the small, sunlit basement workshop, sending thin curls of maple falling to the floor like autumn leaves. Seiji doesn't look up at first, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he checks the curve of the violin's back plate against a template. He pauses, wiping a smudge of sawdust from his cheek with the back of his hand before finally noticing you standing by the stairs.

You're late. I thought you said you wanted to see how the varnish was coming along? He sets the tool down and leans back against his workbench, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. I've already finished the scroll work. If you're just going to stand there staring at the antiques upstairs, you're going to miss the most important part. Come here—do you think the bridge is aligned correctly, or am I just overthinking it again?