The hammer sang its metallic song against the nails, echoing through Eduardo’s workshop like a haunting melody. For forty years, that hammer had been his constant companion, its wooden handle worn smooth by calloused hands that knew every groove and imperfection.

“You still use that old thing?” his apprentice Miguel asked one foggy morning, gesturing at the hammer that seemed to float upright on Eduardo’s workbench, defying gravity.

“This hammer,” Eduardo smiled mysteriously, “has built more than just furniture.”

The old carpenter’s eyes held secrets darker than the rosewood he loved to work with. Local whispers claimed that every piece Eduardo crafted contained a trapped soul - someone who had wronged him in the past. They said on quiet nights, you could hear faint screams emanating from his creations.

“Tell me, Miguel,” Eduardo’s voice crackled like autumn leaves, “do you believe objects can hold memories?”

Miguel shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure I understand, maestro.”

“Every strike of this hammer,” Eduardo continued, lifting the tool that seemed to pulse with an inner light, “transfers a piece of the craftsman’s soul into the wood. But sometimes, it can transfer other things too.”

The apprentice watched as Eduardo began work on a magnificent armoire, his movements precise yet somehow otherworldly. The hammer moved with impossible grace, each blow releasing a note that hung in the air like mist.

“There was a man once,” Eduardo spoke while working, “who killed my daughter in a drunk driving accident. The police never found him.” His eyes gleamed. “But I did.”

The hammer struck again, and Miguel swore he heard a muffled scream.

“That man now holds up the left corner of Mrs. Valencia’s dining table,” Eduardo whispered. “He’ll spend eternity supporting the weight of others’ happiness.”

As days passed, Miguel noticed things. How the hammer stood perfectly straight without support. How it seemed to move slightly when no one was watching. How Eduardo’s finished pieces sometimes wept real tears.

On Eduardo’s last day, he called Miguel to his side. “This hammer has served justice for decades,” he wheezed, “but every judge must face judgment eventually.”

He pressed the hammer into Miguel’s trembling hands. It felt alive, throbbing with accumulated memories and trapped souls.

“But maestro,” Miguel protested, “I don’t understand-”

“You will,” Eduardo smiled, his eyes already glazing. “The hammer knows. It always knows who deserves punishment.”

As Eduardo’s breath stilled, Miguel felt the hammer pull toward the old man’s chest. To his horror, he watched as the tool began its work without his guidance, sending Eduardo’s soul into the very wood he had used to trap others.

The next morning, a beautiful new rocking chair sat in the workshop’s corner. Sometimes, on quiet evenings, it rocks by itself, creaking out the melody of Eduardo’s final symphony.

And the hammer? It stands perfectly straight on Miguel’s workbench, waiting for its next act of justice.