The Silent Forge

Iron cools in the twilight hour, yielding its heat to the breathless air. The hammer rests against the anvil, a heavy monument to the day's long strikes.

Sparks no longer climb the chimney walls; instead, the shadows stretch and settle. Dust motes dance in the fading ray, the only motion in the workshop's quiet.

Here the maker leaves behind a shape, pulled from the ore and bent by force. It waits for morning, rough and new, a silent promise of the work to come.