When the old potter Grim put the last pottery bowl on my table, there was a thin crack on the bottom of the bowl.

“This month’s work is done,” he said, wiping his hands on the apron without looking at me. Outside the window is the new signboard of the “Silver Hammer Association” on the street, which is dazzling in the sun. I know that they sent someone to Grim last week and paid me 3 more than me. This cracked bowl is his answer.

My workshop is so small that it is crowded at the end of the alley. The carpenter Erin was shoveling a wooden board that could not be planed evenly. Brando, the blacksmith, stared at the fire in a daze — his only daughter was sick, and the medicine was terribly expensive. The orders we received were all picked up by the big bank: repairing broken armor, carving cheap amulets, and making a batch of not very good-looking wooden wine glasses for the tavern.

The first decent opportunity came suddenly. The merchant wants a set of tableware for the count, which should be exquisite and fast. I spread the order on the table, and all three people surrounded me. Grim said that the clay was not good enough, and Erin said that the carving tools were too old. Brando shook his head directly: “The furnace temperature is not enough to shine that kind of light.”

We sat in silence all afternoon. Finally, Erin stood up and took out a small piece of treasured rosewood from the bottom of her toolbox. “Give me two days,” she said, “I can carve out the handle.” Brando didn’t say anything. He turned to the backyard and began to smash those abandoned iron tools — he was picking materials that could still be used. Grim sighed and pushed the door out, saying that he was going to find a new place to dig clay.

No one spoke in the seven-day workshop, only the sound of carving, beating, and the turning of the embryo wheel. I go to the market every day to sell the small items I made the day before in exchange for food and a little good charcoal. On the third day, Brando’s daughter’s illness suddenly worsened, and he came to me with red eyes to advance the money. I counted the money bag and pushed more than half of it to him. He stood for a while holding the money, turned back to the stove, and beat it harder than before.

On the day of delivery, the businessman held the spoon and looked at the light, and nodded for a long time. The money bag fell heavily on the table. I divided the money into four parts and pushed three parts to them. Grim touched the money, took out a silver coin and put it back in front of me. “Buy some good clay,” he said. “I can make better next time.”

But the good days didn’t last long. A kind of stained glassware has become popular in the city, and no one in my workshop can do it. There are fewer orders again. Irene began to take on private work. Once I even saw her teaching street apprentices carving skills — in order to teach her how to color glass. I didn’t disassemble it, but when I locked the door at night, I put half a can of newly bought varnish on her tool table.

In the most difficult winter, the road is closed by heavy snow, and there is no business for half a month. Brando’s daughter’s cough came from upstairs, one after another. I took away the silver necklace left by my mother and replaced it with firewood and medicine. On the day the fire started again, Grim brought a pot of stew that could not be seen from the ingredients. Erin didn’t know where she got a small bottle of honey wine. We ate the silent dinner around the stove, and the snow outside the window covered the light of the street signboard.

The transfer is coming at the beginning of spring. An old scholar is looking for a craftsman who can repair the covers of ancient books. This job is troublesome and not very profitable, and the big association is unwilling to accept it. We picked it up. Erin carved woodblocks, Brando pressed gold foil, and Grim made a paint close to ancient leather. During the delivery, the old scholar touched the cover and his eyes lit up. He didn’t pay much, but left a sentence: “The craft is in the soul, not in the instrument.”

I don’t know how this word spread. At first, someone came to us to make “soulful” things — not the most exquisite, but I could see who did it. The number of orders is gradually increased, although it is still not as large as the scale of the opposite street.

One day, the people of the Silver Hammer Association really came to dig Grim. The price made my palms sweat. After listening, Grim wiped the clay on his hand and said, “I broke a bowl here. They didn’t scold me, and they bought new clay for me to redo.” After the man left, Grim sat back in front of the embryo wheel and hummed an old workshop minor.

At the end of the game, my workshop was still small and crowded. But we have our own signboard — a wooden board carved by Erin, with the iron letters typed by Brando on it, and painted with the tone of Grim. The signboard does not glow in the sunset, but when the wind blows, it will make a nice sound, like a planer scratching the wood.

I quit the game, and there seemed to be the moisture of clay in my hand. In reality, I am a person who works from nine to five and has never cared about anyone. But in the few hours just now, I was worried about a can of clay, worried about a money for medicine, and my nose was sore for an out-of-tune workshop tune.

Running a guild was never really about managing wood, metal, and clay. What is in charge is the rosewood at the bottom of the carpenter’s drawer that is reluctant to use, the breath that the blacksmith is holding back when beating, and the cracked and honest bowl that the potter put in front of you. The so-called loyalty may be that when someone offers three times the price, what you think of is a night when the door is closed in heavy snow, a pot of terrible stew, and a circle of silent people around the stove, holding on with you.