The Heavy Shadow of My Father’s Desk

Dear Delyara, I received a package from my uncle today containing a set of old, hand-forged chasing hammers that belonged to my father’s workshop in Iran. The wooden handles are worn smooth from his grip, stained with the oil of his palms from forty years ago. I laid them out on my clean desk in London, and the sheer weight of his artistic legacy felt like a physical hand pressing down on my throat. He built something timeless with his bare hands, and here I am, filling out security checklists and tracking rental income on a spreadsheet. The comparison is entirely breaking my spirit; I am carrying his name, but none of his courage.