You swing your hammer down, pounding the red hot iron rod on the anvil. You can tell you are getting close, you're just not sure to what. You swing again trying to find where this feeling is leading you. Every swing brings you closer and closer until—

“Smithy!” a yell disrupts your thoughts. “Come in for dinner.”

“Be there in a minute,” you reply.

You take another couple of swings at the iron but the feeling is gone. You’ll have to try again tomorrow. You quench the rod and clean up your tools before heading in to eat with your parents. Well, technically the old smith and his wife are not your parents. They had found you huddling by the forge one winter night when you were barely old enough to walk. They had tried to find your parents, but they hadn’t even been able to figure out your name. Which is why you were now called Smithy or Little Smith. The old Smith had given you a name but nobody ever used it.

You take one last look at the forge before heading inside. Surely you will be able to find what you are looking for tomorrow.