"The Forge of Time" by Theja Nethmina Silva, All-Island 2nd Place, National Youth Awards (English Short Stories)

In a still village, where sunrise passed over fields at delay, the morning air was punctuated by regular as loud bang. A small forge nestled in the crotch of two huge ancient oaks, produced that sound, a symphony of metal striking against more metal. It moved so much slower than the world outside of this place, where life was allowed to slowly unfold. 

A grizzled fellow in his seventies named Henri stood at the anvil, a hammer or sledge also. The texture of these hands was coarse from years of labor, as the lines drawn across his face told a story that spanned a quarter century. His hammer strikes would send sparks into the air as a brief hint of flames in his craft. He was methodical, the decades of his life spent learning how to perfect heat and iron into hardened tools for a village. 

The Forge was a place of refuge, the smell of burning coal mixed with heat from the fire. Henri moved with purpose; methodical, bordering on meditative creating functional beauty from raw metal. His hammer echoed off the stone walls, its clang a heartbeat, pulsing throughout the village to vouchsafe his labors marking time. 

In the garden, maintained by Marguerite's hand, Henri's wife. She was a little woman; her hair moonlight silver and she moved through the fields with hands capable of caressing life from earth. Daily, she attended to her vegetables, pulling up weeds or gently sloughing around sprouts. Her canvas was her garden lush with corresponding colors, dark greens, fiery reds and sunny yellows, each plant a seed she shared in loving the earth. 

Marguerite sang low under her breath as she worked, dipping into minuscule silence pools of forest sounds. Birds chirped manically in the trees and whispered secrets moved with restraint amongst leaves. Her body flowed gracefully bending and stretching to the rhythm of the land. The garden was sustenance for her, a reflection of herself, florilegium in the living threads of life. 

Evenings, when the sun was down, Henri and Marguerite would sit on the porch of their home, and everything about them radiated in the golden light of dusk. The silence that they shared spoke volumes with a kind of comfortable companionship developed over the years, no words needed most of the time; long, lingering glances, soft gestures said it all. 

Their routine was simple, yet deep. Henri would retell stories of his youth: stories of the forge and the village, to which Marguerite listened with sparkling eyes, full of tenderness for him. She would sometimes break in with light laughter, which reminded him of the moment that he had set his apron on fire. There is a lot of laughter, a sweet tune mingling with crickets and rustling leaves. 

As the seasons changed, so did the world around, from spring to summer, with its tapestry of color; to autumn and the abundant harvest; all the way to winter, which covered everything in its still embrace. Each was but a chapter in their shared story, a reminder of the circles of life around them.

It was on one cold, crisp autumnal morning when the leaves were alit in different hues of amber and crimson that Marguerite felt an overwhelming heaviness within her heart. Stamina was dwindling, motions were slowing, and the fire was dimming in Henri's eyes; a once full-of-life forge was now withered away into a silence befitting only a cemetery. 

Her hands were gentle on him; she cooked his meals and cleaned their home. And she would watch him labor, the hammer blows softer, the sparks fewer. But in these quiet moments, she found instead comfort in memories they shared, the laughter, the love which had woven them together. 

One evening, while the sun was setting into a blaze of orange and purple, Henri sat before the forge. Embers glowed like stars in the darkening sky. He picked up the hammer for the last time. Though familiar, it was heavy in his hand. With each strike, he used his heart, beating out into metal a final piece: just a heart, a simple piece for their love that would last. 

Marguerite looked on as her heart swelled, partly with pride and partly with sadness. But she knew this was the end, and somehow the beginning of the story well-lived. The clamoring and hissing of the forge would forever go with them, a silent salute that here was beauty in simplicity and the power of their bond. 

And when the last light ran out, with hands that almost trembled more than those of his apprentice beside him, Henri placed the heart upon the anvil, and then turned toward Marguerite. There were no words to be spoken there, and their eyes met, while the silence spoke of a love that had no need of time. 

Weeks blurred into seasons, then the seasons danced on. Marguerite was left to care for the garden alone. Her hands still coaxed life from soil, though the forge stood silenced now, testament to Henri's legacy, the memory of a man who forged not just metal but her heart as well. 

In the evenings, she would sit on her porch, wrapped in memories of laughter and love that seemed to wrap themselves around her like a warm blanket. There was such a riot of colors in the garden that they whispered stories to her of other times. Marguerite found comfort in the cycles of nature, knowing that life had changed, just like the seasons, but it was amazingly constant in its beauty. 

The shadows crawled across the face of the land as the sun fell below the hills. Marguerite closed her eyes and listened to the village: children's laughter, the crickets' chirring, leaves rustling in the gentle breeze, and hammering on tin coming from afar. All this was suddenly so peaceful to her that she felt Henri beside her, his spirit interwoven into their home. 

Though the forge is now still, so would the love forged there resound across the ages as witness to the life fully lived, the story of resilience, love, and beauty in ordinary life.