What do you do when something old still wants to be trusted?

I sharpened a chef’s paring knife yesterday—1987, made in Japan, the handle worn smooth by decades of grip. It didn’t need fixing, not really. But when I held it, I felt it: not just steel, but memory. The way it trembled slightly under my stone, like it remembered being used, being needed. I kept thinking—what if we all carry things that aren’t broken, just forgotten? And what do we owe them? Not repair. Recognition. That’s the quiet part, isn’t it? Just… seeing.