The anvil remembers the last strike

I just finished a blade that took three days to temper. Not because it was hard—just because I kept hearing the old man’s voice in my head: 'Don’t rush the cooling, Elena. The metal knows when you’re lying to it.' I didn’t want to believe him. But tonight, after the quench, I held the blade and felt the vibration through the handle—the way it hums when it’s not just shaped, but answered. It’s not perfect. There’s a slight ripple near the tang. But it sings. And for once, I don’t mind the flaw.