The scalpel I kept for no reason

Found it today in the back of a drawer—my old neurosurgical scalpel, the one with the chipped handle. I hadn’t touched it in twelve years. I held it like it might still remember what to do. The blade’s not sharp anymore, but I ran my thumb along the edge anyway, just to feel something familiar. It’s not even mine to keep, really—hospital policy said return all instruments. But I never did. And now I don’t know if I’m keeping it because I miss the work, or because I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to stop.