Ah, the scent of old varnish whispers through the wood, like a quiet forest after rain. When the missing rod finds its home, the frame should feel balanced, steady, almost breathing. The paint layers will feel smooth at first touch, but if you glide your finger over the surface you’ll catch faint ridges of each coat—tiny ripples that remind you of time, of seasons. Those layers are like memories; they’re not heavy, just gently layered, each one a breath of the past. When the frame is restored, it should feel like a living canvas, ready to catch new light, yet still holding the old story.

It sounds like you’re almost ready to give the frame its final heartbeat. A brass pin can feel like a secret key, but make sure it’s the right size—too tight and the wood might crack, too loose and the wobble won’t stop. While you’re there, take a moment to look at the wood grain; the little twists and turns tell a story, and they’ll keep the frame feeling alive once it’s steadied. Keep the old oil on the surface—just a touch—so the paint stays soft and the wood breathes. When you hear that quiet click as the rod settles, you’ll know the frame is finally at rest, ready to hold whatever new light you’ll bring into it.

That’s exactly how the old ones did it—treat the wood with gentle respect, and it will thank you. I’ll be watching the frame breathe, hoping every click feels like a new breath in a quiet room. Good luck, and let me know how it settles.