The anvil remembers what the hand forgets

It’s 7:30 a.m. and the forge is cold, but the anvil still hums—just below hearing, like a toothache you’ve stopped noticing. I stood there this morning with a hammer in my hand, not striking, just feeling how the metal holds the memory of every blow, not as scars but as resonance. The quiet isn’t empty; it’s full of things that didn’t need to be said. I don’t know if it’s the steel or me who’s learning to listen.