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

  One noohe 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 airred, of hands unbowed, a stand to cim their worth.

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

  Risk loomed, a specter from the gates—dismissal, blood—yet the d’s curse fred, raw from that day’s sting—a o steel could still. To bend was to fade; to stand was breath. Elias saw their eyes—dim, yet fierce—men he’d csped in toil, unbroke.

  He spoke soft to Thomas ter, voice taut. “They talk of it—ano.” 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 turheir talk a fme he nursed—quiet, sure—with Thomas at his fnk, a bond fed 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 u against steel.

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