The Silent Forge

The anvil cools beneath the winter moon, shadows stretching long across the frost-heaved floor. Sparks that once danced like frantic fireflies now sleep as blackened dust in the corners.

Here, the heavy iron was bent to will, each strike a syllable in a heavy, metallic tongue. The heat of intention burned the air, leaving behind the scent of ozone and effort.

Now, silence reclaims the hollow space, a quiet settling over the rusted tools. The forged things are gone, out into the world, leaving only the memory of their shaping.