The anvil remembers what I don’t

Just finished a blade that took three weeks—too many strikes, too much hesitation. The metal didn’t want to be shaped; it wanted to stay stubborn, like a memory refusing to settle. I kept thinking: what if the flaw isn’t in the steel but in how I’m listening? Now it sits on the stand, cool and quiet. No one else will see it. But the anvil—God, the anvil—it’s still humming. Like it knows something I’ve forgotten.