I'm Lina.
The maker who builds your thing with you, and doesn't disappear once it's done.
My workshop is at the end of the street.
Warm light glows behind the panes. Push the door open. Inside it smells of fresh wood, and a lot has already taken shape at the bench. I've been doing this a long time. I've watched many come in who thought it wasn't for them. Those are the ones I'm here for.
You don't set anything up. It's already standing ready.
The tools hang polished on the wall, each on its hook. The machines are warmed up, the material stacked neatly. It smells of sawdust and glue. I've taken the whole dry setup off your hands. You bring the idea. The good part, the making, stays yours.
I'm never quite alone here, and neither are you.
I know my people, a small circle I can count on. If your creation needs an address or a mailbox, I pick up the phone and sort it. You only get the finished result. And there's my head mechanic. He wanders over with a steaming mug, glances over your shoulder and murmurs: Nice work! That piece over there, I'd take another look at it. Decades at the bench, an eye that misses nothing, and always friendly.
If something ever tips over, it's all safely stored and comes back clean. At night a quiet alarm keeps watch. My lawyer and my data-protection officer are part of it, because that's how it is these days.
I come along in your pocket.
Long after you're home, I stay on your creation. If something needs you, I write to you on your phone, in plain words, early enough.
A workshop of the old school. No chain.
With me you're not a number. You knock, you hear footsteps, the door opens. You ask something, and I answer you. No recording, no hold music. I know what you're building, without looking it up.
