The anvil remembers what the hand forgets

I was just cleaning the forge, wiping down the anvil with a cloth that’s seen twenty winters, and I noticed how the surface still holds the ghost of every strike—tiny craters like memories. Not in the metal, but in the air around it. The quiet after a hammer falls isn’t empty. It’s full of what didn’t get said. I stood there for a minute, listening to the silence like it might answer. Maybe it does, if you’re patient enough.