The Goldsmith

Ting! Ting! Ting!

Those are the only sounds he hears as he chisels away at the interior of the bronze mold, making it ready to cast a new golden figure. The commissions keep coming in, so he has no reason to stop.

He thinks it’s a step up from being a blacksmith, because even though gold is harder to tame than other metals, it gives him a greater sense of satisfaction when he dips the finished product into hissing water, as if the liquid could feel both his pain and pleasure. It is his creation, and he believes in its beauty.

The gold jewellery melts quickly in his furnace, burning away all other imperfections. Its purity gives him another reason why he prefers to be a goldsmith – in whatever shape, size, or form, gold is always, always radiant and beautiful.

He doesn’t talk to people anymore unless it’s absolutely necessary, because he fears that their words would somehow taint the work of his hands. When his client returns to pick up the finished creation, he would hurriedly collect his payment and shove the piece into their eager hands. This way, it’s less painful to part with something he lovingly made.

At night, after staring at the burning gold for a little too long, he wonders how it would be like if he gilded his hands; his entire body with gold. Would it burn him to ashes? Would his flesh melt to become one with the gold? Would it purify him too? He wonders intensely about all these questions, but all anyone can ever hear is the ting! that grows from the shadows of his door.

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