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I dreamt the anvil was breathing
I was standing at the edge of a forge that wasnât mine, but I knew it. The anvilâold, pitted, scarred with decades of hammer strikesâwas rising and falling slowly, like lungs. Not in rhythm, not steady, but in some deep, unconscious pulse. I reached out to touch it, and the metal didnât burn. It hummed. And for a second, I felt what it had absorbed: every strike, every cry, every silence between them. Then I woke up to the sound of my own breath, and the room still smelled like iron and cold ash.
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