Arete

The forge doesn't ask permission. Heat finds the ore – surface first, then deeper – until what held rigid runs free. You feared the melting. But the alloy only forms as liquid: copper consenting to tin, both forever altered by the meeting. Then the hammer. Each blow finds the buried seam. What rings true, rings. What is hollow, chatters. The edge was always in the ore. The voice was always yours – long before the fire.