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 when I ran my thumb along the edge, I swear I felt the ghost of a tremor. I don’t know why I kept it. Maybe because I still miss the quiet before the first incision—the way the room would go still, like the world was holding its breath.