Clank! The hammer came down on the anvil, sending a sharp jolt up my arm. "Hit it harder, boy! You're striking metal, not pressing flowers into a book—hit it harder!" barked the blacksmith. His voice cut through the roar of the forge like the crack of a whip. My grip tightened around the hammer's handle as I swung again, my muscles screaming in protest. The metal on the anvil sparked and glowed, but it was clear my work didn't meet his standards.
The job was far from easy. Since dawn, I'd been at it—swinging, hammering, heaving. The morning chill had quickly given way to the oppressive heat of the forge. By mid-morning, I was stoking the fire, the flames roaring like a beast ready to devour me whole. The overbearing heat singed my skin, and at one point, I swear it almost burned my eyebrows clean off. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of molten iron, and I couldn't stop coughing as it invaded my lungs. By the late afternoon, I was covered head to toe in ash and soot. My shirt clung to me like a second skin, drenched with sweat, and my arms trembled with exhaustion. I splashed water on my face, the coolness a fleeting relief against the grime that clung stubbornly to my skin. The blacksmith stood over me, his sharp eyes watching my every move. "You'll get used to that," he said gruffly, though there was no kindness in his tone. "You need improvement. I expect better by tomorrow. Otherwise, you're out—useless, like a fifth wheel on a wagon." His words stung, but I set my jaw and nodded. I wouldn't let him see the frustration bubbling inside me, wouldn't give him the satisfaction. If this was what it took to keep Ma and Jenny afloat, then I'd endure it. I'd face the fire, the smoke, and the relentless bellowing if it meant I could keep us going. No matter how much the heat and the hammer tried to break me, I wouldn't let them.
The day was far from over. I leaned against a weathered post outside the forge, my muscles trembling from the morning's relentless pace. Sweat mixed with the soot smudged across my face, and the sharp chill of the evening air barely cut through the smothering heat that still clung to me. It was my first day as the blacksmith's apprentice—his only apprentice—and already the weight of the work felt crushing. I tipped my head back, stealing a few seconds to breathe, my gaze wandering to the sky above. The evening was radiant, the sun sinking low and casting the heavens in a fiery palette of orange and red. As I watched, a streak of light shot across the sky, trailing the faintest hint of green mist. Its fleeting passage seemed almost serene, a quiet reprieve from the clanging chaos that had defined the day. "Must've been a shooting star," I muttered to myself, barely audible against the sound of my own ragged breathing. "Break time's over, boy!" The blacksmith's voice shattered the stillness, sharp and booming. I turned quickly, catching his familiar glare as he strode toward me. His face bore the wear of years spent toiling under the forge's flame, creased and smudged with ash, yet his eyes burned with unwavering intensity. "Back to work! And while you're at it, try not to stumble over the anvil again—it's not there for decoration!"
By nightfall, the forge quieted, its fiery glow dimming to smoldering embers that painted the walls in flickering shadows. The blacksmith stood at the anvil, turning over the horseshoe I had shaped under his watchful eye. His weathered face, set with lines of experience, was unreadable as he examined my work. "There's improvement here," he said finally, his voice measured but firm. "I'll keep you on for now. But remember what I told you this morning." He set the horseshoe down with a decisive clang, his sharp eyes cutting toward me. "I've seen enough injuries from greenhorn apprentices to last a lifetime—bleeding legs, metal splinters, burns, and worse. If you've any sense about you, you'll take my words seriously and show respect for the craft. Be professional, boy." He reached into his apron pocket, pulling out a small handful of coins. The metal gleamed faintly as he placed them into my hand. "Here's your payment," he said gruffly, his tone softening a fraction. "And try to do better tomorrow. You've still got a long way to go." I nodded silently, pocketing the money. Though his words carried a bite, they also offered a glimmer of acknowledgment I hadn't expected. As I turned to leave, the dying light of the forge cast my shadow long against the floor. The air outside was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain that clung to the town like a memory. Tomorrow would bring more demands, but tonight, I allowed myself a moment to breathe. The weight of the coins in my pocket wasn't much, but it meant one thing: I'd earned a start.
By the time I set off for home, the streets were quiet, the bustle of the day long faded into the gentle hum of evening. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth after last night's rain. My steps felt heavier than usual, though whether it was from the day's labor or my lingering thoughts, I couldn't quite tell. Then, something caught my eye—a flicker of movement in the darkening sky. I paused and looked up, my breath hitching as I spotted it—a shooting star streaking across the heavens, its trail shimmering faintly with an unusual green mist. It was the second I'd seen today, and this time, it stayed in view just long enough to hold my gaze. I watched it with quiet fascination, the wonder of its fleeting brilliance stirring something deep within me. "Perhaps now I can make a wish," I said softly to myself, letting the thought settle as I closed my eyes.
Just as the wish began forming in my mind, my mother's voice rang out from the doorway, sharp and clear against the still night. "Tommy, get inside before the wolves claim you! And clean off that muck from your face—dinner's been ready for over 30 minutes!" I opened my eyes, startled out of my reverie, the shooting star already vanished into the horizon. I let out a small sigh, a quiet mix of amusement and disappointment. Wiping my face with the back of my sleeve, I picked up my pace toward home, the warmth of the house beckoning me through the chill of the night. Whatever wish I'd intended to make would have to wait for another time.