Elias drifted through the factory’s haze, a shadow amidst its steel—hands moved rote, the lathe’s hum a claw at his ears. Each day tightened its grip, a chain he bore, yet a spark lingered—faint, unbent—against the din that ground him small.

  One noon, near the yard’s edge, voices drifted low—workers, hushed, their words a thread through the roar. Elias paused, drawn by their murmur—a pulse he’d felt in dusk’s quiet. Talk of strikes anew stirred, of hands unbowed, a stand to claim their worth.

  His pulse quickened, a coal amidst ash—could they rise again? His father’s curse burned low in his skull—not scorn, but a fire for men machines crushed. Thomas loomed in mind, grim from their last fray—his grit a tether Elias clung to. Could they rouse this tide?

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  Risk loomed, a specter from the gates—dismissal, blood—yet the lad’s curse flared, raw from that day’s sting—a cry no steel could still. To bend was to fade; to stand was breath. Elias saw their eyes—dim, yet fierce—men he’d clasped in toil, unbroken yet.

  He spoke soft to Thomas later, voice taut. “They talk of it—another go.” Thomas’s gaze steadied, a rock amidst doubt. “Aye,” he rasped, “and we’ll join—scar by scar.”

  The words sank deep, a vow not of craft’s lost song, but of hands that fought beside him—blood shared, wills scarred. Elias felt the chisel in his pocket, its edge notched—a mark of men it might wake, not just mend. The hum droned, a foe unfelled—yet a spark glowed, frail as dawn.

  Days turned, their talk a flame he nursed—quiet, sure—with Thomas at his flank, a bond forged in ruin. The factory’s grip pressed, but Elias held—hope flickered, not for craft’s ghost, but for the men who’d rise, hands unbent against steel.

  Dusk fell, the spark alive—tentative, fierce—a fight reborn, for the crushed, for hands yet to claim their day.