Elias Berwick stood alone in his workshop, dusk’s faint glow seeping through the grimed pane. Oak and walnut sted the air, a whiff once warm, now cold as the half-carved chair before him—a taunt of work uhe shop, his le, echoed with chisels stilled, orders rare as frost in June.

  The door creaked, nd a man stepped in—coat crisp, hat perched precise, eyes sweeping the room with cool disdain. “Mr. Berwick,” he said, voice clipped, sharp as a bde.

  Elias nodded, hands tight on his chisel. “Aye. What brings you?”

  “Mr. Harding sends me,” the man replied, firm and final. “Your services are done.”

  A silence fell, heavy as lead. Elias’s chest tightehe words a blow he’d half-seen ing. Harding’s trust had held for years—why now? “What’s ged?” he asked, voice low, dread a knot within.

  “Steel Street’s factory,” the man said, blunt. “Maes—cheaper, faster, good enough.”

  Elias’s grip faltered, the chisel’s edge biting his palm—a sting to match his rage. “Maes?” he spat, disbelief raw. “They’ve no soul—none of this.” He gestured to the chair, its curves born of care.

  The man shrugged, unmoved. “Soul’s not . Folk want cheap—they’ve got it.”

  The truth struck hard, a hammer to his pride. Skill honed over years, hands that knew wood’s grain—cast off for iron’s cold . He thought of his father who’d taught him, long gone, his s for haste a shadow in this room. Could he face that ghost now?

  “You’re past, Berwick,” the man said, turning away, door shutting sharp. Elias stood, the chair a mute witness, its lines a o one heard. The world rolled on—swift, cruel—leaving him in dust. His hands shook, not with age, but loss—a craft fading, a fight he’d not yet named, brewing in the quiet dark.