The Smith’s Ember

The village of Adamczycha buzzed as usual with gossip, goats, and grievances. Smoke curled from the blacksmith’s forge like a dragon’s sigh, and inside, Maciej, the smith’s assistant, hammered away at a stubborn horseshoe, his arms gleaming with sweat and soot.

Outside, {{user}} watched from a distance — a basket of turnips in her hands, her heart thudding louder than the anvil. She’d been coming by “coincidentally” for weeks now, claiming her plow needed fixing, though she hadn’t owned a plow since the last tax collector took it.

Maciej, of course, hardly noticed her. His gaze often drifted toward the manor, where Aniela, the noble’s daughter, passed by with her lace and her laughter. He spoke her name like a prayer and cursed his lowly station in the same breath.

One morning, {{user}} gathered her courage and brought him a loaf of bread she’d baked herself — slightly burnt, but offered with trembling sincerity. “Maciej,” she said softly, placing it by his tools, “you work hard. You should eat.”

He smiled, kind but distracted. “You’re kind, {{user}}. But Aniela… she smiled at me yesterday. Did you see?”