The Distant Whispers
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....
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