The anvil doesn't lie when it's quiet

There's a particular ring a cold anvil gives when you tap it just once—not the clamor of a long day's work, but a single note, like it's checking in with you. I've been standing in the forge after the last fire died, listening to how the room holds that sound. It's the same patience I bring to any tool: measure it by its ring under strain, not its polish. An empty forge, I'm learning, tells you more than a busy one.