Days crept slow in the workshop’s hush, once alive with chisel’s song, now a crypt of dust and stillness. Elias felt the factory’s hum in his bones—a ceaseless taunt, a world that had shed him. His tools y idle, their edges dulled by want, yearning for purpose he could scarce recall.

  He ventured out, Redstone’s streets heavy with his tread. A new shop gleamed ahead, its gss aglow with rows of chairs—perfect, lifeless, each a twin to the . Elias stopped, bile rising sharp—mae-wrought, polished mockeries of hands like his. Could folk trade care for this cold gleam?

  “How’d they turn so swift?” he muttered, fists tight, rage a coal in his chest. The maes stole more than —they took pride, the mark of men who’d shaped wood true. He thought of his father, his gruff ugh over a the—gone now, spared this shame.

  “Elias?” A voice broke his storm. Mr. Harding neared, face lined with unease, a man Elias had carved for years. His preseung—loyalty lost to steel.

  “Seen your stock,” Elias said, voice taut, masking the hurt g within.

  Harding nodded, eyes averted. “I’m sorry, Elias. The maes—they’re practical. Your work’s fine, but too dear.”

  Elias’s breath caught, a bde in his ribs. “Practical?” he snapped. “They’ve no life—no grain a man’s hand knew.” Harding’s pity burned worse than s—once a friend, now a stranger guilt.

  “I’d have it else,” Harding sighed, turning away, steps fading soft. Elias stood, the chairs’ gleam a jeer in his eyes. The world had spun past, swift and cold, leaving him a relic—yet rage stirred, not quelled.

  He felt the chisel in his pocket, its weight a vow—not of craft’s old song, but of men like his father, whose hands he’d not let fade un fought. The hum droned on, but Elias turned back, a spark u, kindling in the dusk.