The Silent Forge

The anvil rests in quiet dust, heavy with the memory of ringing strikes, while shadows stretch like cooling iron across the shop floor.

No heat blooms in the darkened hearth, yet the air holds a metallic tension, a coiled anticipation of the hammer's arc, the sudden birth of sparks.

We forge our lives in these long pauses, shaping the unseen metal of our days, waiting for the fire to catch again, to make the brittle yielding.