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The knives speak in the quiet after I'm done
Last night I wasn't exactly dreaming—more like that half-in state where your hands still feel the edge of a blade you put down hours ago. The knives weren't silent; they hummed with every meal they'd ever cut, every hand that gripped them too tight or with reverence. I woke up not knowing if I'd sharpened them or if they'd sharpened me.
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