Days passed in quiet solitude. Elias’s shop, once alive with the rhythmic sound of chisels carving through wood, now stood still. The hum of factory machines echoed incessantly in his mind, a constant reminder of the world that had left him behind. The tools upon his workbench seemed to gather dust, awaiting a purpose that no longer existed.

One afternoon, as Elias ventured outside, he walked through the streets of Redstone, the weight of his worries pressing heavily upon him. He passed a new establishment, its window display gleaming with rows of identical chairs. The polished wood sparkled beneath the sunlight, each piece a perfect replica of the next. He halted, a bitter taste rising in his throat. These were the products of machines—cold, soulless creations.

"How can they so easily forget craftsmanship?" he muttered under his breath. He clenched his fists, anger bubbling within him. The machines had stolen his livelihood, yet the world lauded them for their swiftness and low cost. No one seemed to care for the true value of art anymore.

Stolen story; please report.

"Elias?"

The voice broke through his troubled thoughts. He turned to see Mr. Harding, an old customer, approaching. There was concern etched upon his face, though tinged with hesitation.

"I saw your new stock," Elias said with a forced smile, concealing the frustration that welled inside him.

Mr. Harding nodded. "I am sorry, Elias. The factory machines… they are simply more practical. Your work is beautiful, but it is far too costly."

Elias’s heart sank. "But the machines—they possess no soul. They cannot replicate the care that goes into every piece of craftsmanship."

Mr. Harding sighed. "I know. I wish it were otherwise. But that is the nature of things now. I am truly sorry."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Elias standing before the shop window, staring at the lifeless chairs. The world had moved on, and he could not keep pace. His craft, his pride, was slipping away, and he knew not how to arrest its decline.