Soft Wood Plank sits warm and faithful in the palm of your hand, a pale strip of timber that catches the light like a whispered secret. Its surface is satin-smooth from patient planing, with a tight, even grain that runs in soft, lazy arcs. A few tiny knots wink from the light, stubborn memories of branches that didn’t quite want to be furniture, and the edges are gently chamfered as if to invite touch rather than fear a careless nick. The scent is faintly resinous, a clean piney breath that lingers just long enough to remind you this plank knows the smell of rain on a harbor town. It’s the sort of thing you could carry in your saddlebag or lay down in a workshop corner and feel the world settle around it, as if a small, sturdy promise had just arrived. There are rumors that tie this wood to longer, unfinished legends—the way a shipwright in a quiet quay used a dozen of them to patch a storm-torn hull, or how a carpenter cut one into the slats of a stubborn crate that outlived two markets and a dozen winters. The Soft Wood Plank seems to carry the memory of effort: of planes, saws, and careful measurements, of patience rewarded when the last plank fits perfectly into a frame. In quiet conversations beside the docks, veterans speak of this wood as a reliable backbone—the material you reach for when speed and weight matter, but where strength need not shout to be seen. In the world’s daily rhythm, these planks are the first stitches in a larger fabric. Carpenters rely on them to craft crates that protect cargo on rattling carts, to fashion simple shelves that hold the day’s wares, and to coarsely shape seats and tables for markets and taverns. A bundle of Soft Wood Planks can become a sturdy crate that weathered a trip down a muddy road, or a set of rails for a market stall that invites customers to linger. For those who trade or repair, they’re a common currency of creation: easy to cut, forgiving to fit, and light enough to shift with a wagon’s sway. The tool-worn hands of a craftsman and the hopeful hands of a merchant share a quiet trust in this wood—it does not demand attention, yet it rewards it with simple, reliable results. If you wander the river markets or the edge of a coastal plaza, you’ll hear whispers about price and supply, the way a season’s storms or a drought in the lumberyard can tilt the ledger by copper or two. It’s here that Saddlebag Exchange comes into the tale—a row of weathered stalls where merchants trade in the day’s finds, where the clack of coins and the rustle of cloth tell a story as much as the timber does. A stack of Soft Wood Planks might sit on a dusty counter, labeled with chalk and a careful price, traded over a pot of tea or a steaming broth. A dealer might offer a fair deal with a smile, hinting at bulk discounts or a future barter if someone needs a few extra boards for a neighbor’s need. The market hums around it—the weathered promise of wood, the steady rhythm of work, and the sense that every plank is a small contribution to the larger, living story of building, repairing, and making do with what you have.