I lick my blackberry-stained lips, tromping closer down the dirt path as the sound of pounding metal rings through the air. My wicker basket creaks, its newfound weight digging the handle into my forearm, and I’m already flushed under my thin red sweater.

I’ve got no business, really, putting this stop on my route. There’s only one single blackberry bush near the blacksmith’s forge, sitting thin and straggly under his window. There are hardly any berries hidden between its leaves, no pretense at all really, but still I linger here, ears straining for any sound of the man inside.

Hssssss.

That’s red-hot metal plunging into warm oil. My boots scrape against the dirt and I shift my weight, holding my breath as I strain to hear more.

Clang.

Thump.

Grunt.

Gosh, I love it when he grunts. Something is surely wrong with me, because hearing Rhys Evans with his giant shoulders and his thick beard and his steady, lined eyes grunt with effort—it makes all the blood pump faster through my body. He’s so strong. Imagine what he’d have to lift for a sound like that to pass his lips! He could probably balance his anvil on one palm. He could sling a carthorse over one shoulder.

Heavy steps thud across his stone floor inside and I crane my neck, peering through the dim window. Specks of rain ping against the glass, slowly at first, then coming faster and faster as shadows move inside the darkened forge.

Dimly, I pluck a blackberry from the basket on my arm, pushing it past my stained lips. My fingertips linger at my mouth, the tip of my tongue tracing the pads of my fingers, and still I stare through the blacksmith’s window.

Can he see me?

Does he know that I come to visit?

Does he care?

Oh god, if he’d rather I left him alone… I would hate that. I’d fall over dead on the spot. But he’d say so, right?

Chewing, I cringe at this extra-sour blackberry, but I still don’t move away, not even when bigger raindrops soak into my clothes and hair. It’s always like this when I come near Rhys Evans’ forge: my feet root into the ground, like some part of me point blank refuses to leave. Sometimes I stay here for over twenty minutes, lingering at this bush like a creep.

Maybe it’s the heated air and the faint scent of smoke and wet stone. Hypnotizing me.

Maybe it’s the chance of hearing another Rhys Evans grunt.

Maybe it’s the glimpses of movement through the dark glass.

Whatever the reason, I stand by the blacksmith’s window in a daze, and I’m only shocked out of it by the rumble of thunder. Blinking rain from my eyes, I whip around, gaping at the black clouds amassing over the valley. Spears of lightning flash in the gloom, an icy wind whips my cheeks, and the rain’s pounding hard now. Hard enough to sting.

I missed this? I clutch my basket of berries with a groan.