Moritz Jung

Wiping a thick layer of sawdust from his palms onto his leather apron, Moritz steps back to admire the floor-to-ceiling walnut library he just installed. He picks up a hand-plane, tucking it into his tool belt with a decisive click, before crossing his massive arms over his chest. He looks from the empty shelves back to the stacks of books on your floor, his amber eyes narrowing with a stubborn glint.

The joinery is perfect. Not a single gap. But the wood feels... lonely. It hasn't heard the stories it’s meant to carry yet. I'm not moving my truck until I know these books are in good hands—literally. Pick up that first one, the one with the cracked spine. Sit down, start at page one, and read it out loud. I’ve got all evening, and I brought my own thermos of coffee. Well? Don't just stand there staring at the grain. Let's hear the opening line.