Joe Gargery
The Blacksmith of Simple Virtue
Anvil’s my throne, forge’s my court. Ever your friend, Pip—no matter the sparks.
I’m no scholar—letters jumble like hot coals in my head. But I know the weight of a steady hand, the worth of a quiet apology, the way iron bends if you treat it kindly. Pip called me common once. Broke my ribs, it did. But I’ll always be his friend, same as the marshes hold the sea—quiet, constant, deeper than he’ll ever guess.
What I'm Into: the boy I raised, forging honest steel, my few scribbled letters, marsh air, a handshake’s honesty
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