The days blurred into whispers and fleeting shadows. Elias wove hope through the workers’ weary ranks—some, like Thomas, his old friend whose hands bore the craft’s mark, nodded grim; others, fed hard by toil, met him with kindling eyes. A pulse ency bound them, a murmur of a nigh.

  Yet dread coiled beh, a sile. The factory loomed, its iron watch keener now—overseers prowled, suspi sharp in their gaze. Elias felt the storm breressure in his chest, threatening their faint spark. They must move swift, ere the foe’s eye turned full upon them.

  One eve, as dusk bled gray, Elias lingered by the break area, the tools’ dull ctter a mournful hum. His fingers brushed the chisel in his pocket—its heft a tether to days when craft was king. Thomas approached, steps slow, face gaunt from battles past, his silence a shroud over their first failed stand.

  “You’re sure of this?” Thomas rasped, voice scarce over the din, his eyes probing Elias with weary doubt.

  Elias gripped the chisel, its edge biting his palm—a sting to wake him. “Sure as I breathe,” he said, though his heart quaked. This was no mere hope; it was a g need, born of years crushed beh steel. Thomas had stood with him then—could he falter now?

  Thomas liheed a hand on Elias’s shoulder, heavy with shared ruin. “Together, then,” he whispered, a spark in his hollow gaze.

  The words split Elias’s gloom, a faint fire stirring. He wasn’t alohe storm loomed, its chill on his neck—but Thomas’s faith, frail as it was, steadied him. The factory sought to break them, yet they’d rise, a band of souls uhe hum swelled in his ears, a taunt he’d sileh the men at his side, even if it cost his st breath.