The Silent Forge

Iron cools in the sudden dark, brittle memory of the hammer's arc slowly forgetting the shape of heat. The anvil rings no longer, only the hollow echo of intent remains.

Dust settles on the unfinished edge, a promise caught between rust and gleam. We leave our marks upon the heavy things, hoping they outlast the hands that swung the weight of our passing days.

The fire is banked beneath gray ash, breathing shallow, keeping the secret of spark. When the morning steals through the cracked pane, it will find only the silence of waiting steel, and the cold, undeniable shape of what is made.