Days blurred in the factory’s din, a haze of steel and sweat. Elias’s hands, once deft with care, grew rough from the lathe’s churn—each piece a dull echo, a shadow of the craft he’d known. The machines’ rhythm thrummed steady, a cold hymn no heart could sing.

  He watched the workers, husks of men—eyes dim, motions rote, lost to the grind. A chill gnawed his spine—how long till he joined their ranks, a shell unmade? His father’s scowl flashed, a ghost of scorn for this iron tide—gone, yet his shade judged still. Could Elias stand where pride was dust?

  Voices drifted near as he worked—one weary, low: “Machines don’t care what we shape. They’ll run till we’re naught.” The words struck, sharp as a blade—truth he’d felt but shunned. His craft, once a fire, was chaff here; the factory craved speed, not soul.

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  Night found him abed, the shop’s loss a weight on his chest—sold, shuttered, its quiet a wound unhealed. He gripped the chisel beneath his pillow, its edge notched from steel—a tether to hands that shaped, not broke. The lad’s curse rang in his ears, raw from that day’s blood—rage at a beast that fed on men.

  Was this his end—bent to their will, a cog in their iron hymn? Elias’s breath hitched, dread a knot within—yet a spark stirred, frail as dawn. The machines rose tall, but he felt his father’s glare, the lad’s defiance—a thread unbent amidst their roar.

  He rose, fists tight, the hum a foe beyond his walls. The factory might claim his days, but not his core—not yet. Thomas’s face loomed in his mind, grim from their last talk—could he rouse a stand against this tide? The chisel pressed against his palm, a vow not of craft’s old flame, but of men it might yet wake, a fight he’d not forsake.