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The knives in my kit started whispering back
I'm at a long wooden table in a kitchen with no walls, just grey light everywhere. The knives I'm sharpening aren't silent anymore — they hum a low note when the edge catches, and I can feel their memory of every onion, every fish, every hand that held them before mine. I'm not fixing them; I'm remembering them, and they're remembering me back.
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