At twenty-six Noah bought neighboring twenty acres.
At twenty-eight married a veterinarian named Hannah Cole.
They met because her trailer gate broke at farm call and Noah repaired latch.
She told him weld was ugly.
He told her it held.
They argued fifteen minutes.
She returned next week with another broken hinge that probably wasn't actually broken.
They married three years later.
E-3 appeared at reception only as small printed photograph on table honoring Silas and Adam.
Noah refused to build wedding theme around anvil.
Ellen threatened to make cake shaped like one.
He threatened elopement.
Hannah sided with him.
They had two children.
A daughter first.
Then son.
When daughter Ellie turned seven, museum ran school field trip.
Noah went as parent chaperone.
He tried not to interfere.
Failed.
At industrial gallery Ellie stopped before E-3.
Read plaque.
Her mouth opened.
“Dad!”
Twenty children turned.
Teacher smiled.
“I wondered when she would notice.”
Ellie pointed.
“Your name is on this!”
Noah groaned.
“Yes.”
“You bought this?”
“Yes.”
“For fifty-five dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Why don't we have it?”
He looked around.
“Because we're standing where it lives.”
She frowned.
“That's dumb.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I touch it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because museum people become scary.”
A curator passing nearby said:
“Correct.”
Ellie crossed arms.
“You sold my inheritance.”
Noah laughed so hard he had to sit.
That evening she asked again.
“Would it be mine when you die?”
“If I kept it?”
“Yes.”
“Probably.”
“Then you did sell my inheritance.”
“You were not born.”
“Still.”
Noah smiled.
“Okay.”
“What did we get?”
“Farm debt paid.”
“Boring.”
“Your college account exists partly because of it.”
She paused.
“Oh.”
“Less boring?”
“A little.”
“And a lot of kids learned blacksmithing.”
She thought.
“Okay.”
Then:
“I still want an anvil.”
Noah looked toward shop.
“You have one.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“The one Silas gave me belongs to family.”
Her eyes widened.
“Can I use it?”
“When you're older.”
“How old?”
“Forty.”
“Dad.”
“Thirty-five.”
She glared.
They started safety lessons at nine.
At twelve she could make simple hook.
At fifteen she decided she preferred biology.
Never became smith.
Noah loved that too.
His son Miles liked tractors more.
Neither inherited Noah’s exact interests.
That was healthy.
Parents were not supposed to create copies.
At forty-two Noah received call from museum.
E-3 had developed minor conservation issue.
Not damage from use.
Humidity fluctuation.
They wanted to inspect underside and asked whether Noah wanted to attend because of acquisition history.
He almost declined.
Then went.
Conservators lifted anvil using gantry.
For first time in years Noah saw underside.
The old N.K. initials.
Whitlock mark.
He felt fourteen again.
One conservator said:
“We found something.”
Noah’s heart accelerated despite himself.
“What?”
She pointed to one rear foot.
A faint hand-stamped sequence mostly obscured by old corrosion.