Elias Berwick stood solitary in his workshop, the faint light of dusk filtering through the grimy window. The familiar scent of oak and walnut filled the air, yet it no longer afforded him comfort. The chair before him, half-carved, was a reminder of the work in which he once took such pride, but now it seemed to mock him. The shop, inherited from his father, had ever been a place of solace, where every chisel stroke had been purposeful. Yet now, orders came but seldom.

The door creaked open, and a man stepped within, sharply attired. His coat was immaculate, his hat placed with precision atop his head, and his gaze swept the room with an air of indifferent disinterest.

"You must be Mr. Berwick," said the man, his tone stiff and businesslike.

Elias nodded. "I am. How may I be of service?"

"I am here on behalf of Mr. Harding. He no longer requires your services," the man declared with finality.

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A heavy silence ensued. Elias felt his chest tighten. Mr. Harding had been a loyal patron for many years. "Why?" he inquired, though he already feared the answer.

"The factory on Steel Street," the man explained. "They have begun employing machines. It is cheaper, swifter, and yields the same quality."

Elias’s hand trembled about his chisel. "Machines?" he echoed, disbelief in his voice. "But they cannot replicate the care that handcrafting affords."

The man was blunt. "They need not. The machines produce identical results, and the customers favour the lower prices."

The words struck Elias as a physical blow. His craftsmanship, honed through a lifetime of dedication, seemed now irrelevant in this new world. The chair before him, once a symbol of his skill, now appeared trifling.

"I fear your kind of work is no longer valued," the man added before turning to leave.

Elias watched him depart, the door closing with a cold finality. His father’s legacy was slipping away, fading into the past. The world outside, with its unforgiving efficiency and ceaseless march of machinery, was moving forward, leaving him behind.