The Silent Forge

Iron cools in the breathless dark, a sudden quiet where the hammer fell. The anvil remembers the shape of the strike long after the heat has bled into the stone.

We measure our days by the sparks we throw, fleeting arcs of brief incandescent light against a backdrop of unchanging grey. We strike, we bend, we hope the form will hold.

And when the fire dies and ashes settle, what remains is cold, unyielding weight. A monument to the swing, the sweat, the soot, waiting for the touch of someone else's hands.