The hammer falls. It is heavy. It is cold. You strike the anvil. The sound is a dull thud against the silence of the shop. You are the smith. You are the only one here. The air is thick with coal dust and the smell of hot iron. Your hands are steady. They are always steady. You have done this for forty years. You know the weight of the metal. You know the temper of the fire. You do not look up. You never look up.

"Is it done?"

The voice comes from the doorway. It is soft. It is familiar. It is the voice of Elias. He is your apprentice. He is also your son. He stands in the shadow of the archway. His face is pale. His eyes are red. He holds a piece of paper. It is a letter. He does not give it to you. He just holds it.

"You are late," you say. Your voice is rough. It is like grinding stones. You do not stop working. You fold the red-hot bar. You strike it again. The sparks fly. They dance in the air. They die on the floor.

"I am not late," Elias says. "I am early. The time is now. It has always been now."

You stop. You hold the hammer in the air. The metal glows. It pulses like a heart. You look at him. You do not like this. You do not like the way he speaks. It is too smooth. It is too quiet. You have taught him to be loud. You have taught him to be strong. You have taught him to break things and then fix them.

"Give me the letter," you say.

He steps forward. He places the paper on the workbench. You put down the hammer. You pick up the paper. Your hands shake. You have not shaken in twenty years. You open it. The ink is black. The words are clear.

*The debt is paid. The contract is fulfilled. You may rest.*

You read it again. The meaning is simple. The meaning is wrong. You feel a coldness in your chest. It is like the winter wind. It is like the iron in the forge. You look at Elias. He is watching you. His expression is blank. He is waiting.

"Who sent this?" you ask.

"Everyone," he says. "No one. It is the way of things."

You throw the paper into the fire. It catches. It burns quickly. The flames turn blue. They are hungry. They consume the words. You look at the ashes. They are white. They are light. They rise up and disappear.

"You are a fool," you say. "You are always a fool. You think you can escape? You think the metal will stop cooling? You think the fire will go out?"

Elias does not answer. He sits on the bench. He folds his hands. He looks at the floor. He looks at his boots. They are dirty. They are worn. They are like yours.

"Father," he says. "I am tired."

"Rest then," you say. "Sleep. When you wake, the work will be there. It is always there. That is the law. The law does not change. The law does not sleep."

He looks up. His eyes are wet. "It is not just work, Father. It is a trap. I can see the bars. I can see the cage. I have seen it in the fire. I have seen it in the metal. I am you. I will be you. I am already you."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is like a crack in the wood. "You are not me. You are young. You are new. I am old. I am used. There is a difference. The iron remembers the heat. The iron does not forget the shape. I have given you my shape. I have given you my strength. Why do you reject it?"

"Because it hurts," he says. "The shape hurts. The strength hurts. I want to let go. I want to be soft. I want to be nothing."

"Nothing is death," you say. "And death is not an escape. Death is just another form. The iron cools. It becomes brittle. It breaks. But it is still iron. It is still here. It is still part of the ground. It is still part of the world. You cannot leave. You cannot run. You are bound. You are bound by the bond. You are bound by the blood."

Elias stands up. He walks to the door. He stops. He turns back. "I am not bound by blood. I am bound by fear. I am afraid of becoming you. I am afraid of the silence. I am afraid of the hammer. I am afraid of the end."

You walk to him. You are tall. You are broad. You are the shadow that covers him. You put your hand on his shoulder. Your hand is rough. It is like bark. He flinches. He pulls away. He goes to the door. He opens it. The night air rushes in. It is cold. It is sharp. It smells of rain.

"Go," you say. "Go and be free. Go and be soft. Go and be nothing. But know this. The hammer will find you. The fire will find you. The metal will find you. You cannot hide. You cannot run. The cycle is closed. The wheel is turning. You are on the wheel. You will turn. You will turn again and again. Until the iron breaks. Until the iron is dust. Until the iron is gone."

He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes. He sees the truth. The truth is in your eyes. The truth is in the fire. The truth is in the hammer. He knows. He has always known. He is afraid. He is so afraid.

"I will leave," he says. "I will go far away. I will find a place where there is no fire. I will find a place where there is no iron. I will find a place where I can be free."

You nod. You do not stop him. You do not try to keep him. You know it is futile. You know it is useless. You know it is part of the pattern. You turn away. You go back to the anvil. You pick up the hammer. You lift the red-hot bar. You place it on the anvil.

You strike.

The sound is loud. It shakes the room. It shakes the walls. It shakes the earth. You strike again. And again. And again. The rhythm is steady. The rhythm is eternal. You do not look at the door. You do not look at the empty space where he was. You look only at the metal. You look at the heat. You look at the shape.

Hours pass. Or days. Time does not matter. Time is a river. It flows. It does not stop. It does not turn back. You work. You sweat. You bleed. The metal cools. You heat it again. The metal cools. You heat it again. The cycle continues.

One day, the fire dies.

It is not a sudden death. It is a slow fading. The coals turn black. The heat leaves the air. The shop is cold. The shop is dark. You stop working. You sit on the bench. You are tired. You are very tired. Your body is heavy. Your bones are brittle. You feel the pain in your joints. You feel the ache in your muscles. You feel the weight of the years.

You look at the hammer. It lies on the floor. It is dull. It is cold. It is no longer bright. It is no longer sharp. It is just a piece of metal. It is just a tool. It has served its purpose. It has done its work. You look at your hands. They are scarred. They are burned. They are weak. They are old.

You stand up. It is hard. Your legs tremble. You walk to the door. You open it. The light is bright. It is harsh. It stings your eyes. You step out. The world is wide. The world is quiet. There is no sound. There is no noise. There is only the wind. The wind blows through the trees. The wind blows over the fields. The wind blows over the hills.

You walk. You walk slowly. Your feet hurt. Your back hurts. You do not care. You are free. You think you are free. You think the cycle is broken. You think the wheel has stopped. You are wrong.

You walk to the village. The people look at you. They see a stranger. They see an old man. They do not know you. They do not know your name. They do not know your story. You are no one. You are nothing.

You find a house. It is small. It is empty. It is dusty. You go inside. You close the door. You sit down. You rest.

You sleep.

You wake up.

The light is different. The air is different. The room is different. It is not a house. It is a shop. It is a forge. The air is thick with coal dust. The smell is hot iron. You are sitting at a workbench. There is a hammer in your hand. There is a piece of metal on the anvil. It is red. It is hot. It is glowing.

You look at your hands. They are young. They are strong. They are smooth. They are not scarred. They are not burned. They are new.

You look at the door. A boy stands there. He is pale. He is red-eyed. He holds a piece of paper. He looks at you. He looks afraid.

"Is it done?" he asks.

His voice is soft. His voice is familiar. It is your voice. It is your son's voice. It is the voice of the future. It is the voice of the past. It is the voice of the cycle.

You pick up the hammer. You lift the metal. You place it on the anvil. You do not speak. You do not think. You only act. You strike.

The sound is a dull thud. The sound is a beginning. The sound is an ending. The sound is the same. It has always been the same. It will always be the same.

You strike again.