The Silent Forge

Iron bends without a scream in the mind, a quiet heat folding over itself until the spark becomes a spine. The hammer falls, striking only air, shaping the weight of what is not yet there.

We breathe the ash of unspoken words, letting the grit settle on our tongues like snow turning black before the thaw. A sudden draft catches the ember’s throat, and for a moment, the room is alight.

Nothing remains but the cooling edge, a blade drawn from the shadow of thought. It rests against the anvil’s heavy chest, waiting for a hand to test its truth in the cold and open day.