Forged a knife that sings in the dark

It took three weeks—too long, I know, but the edge had to remember the weight of what it was meant to cut. The handle’s walnut is from a tree that fell in a storm last winter; I left the bark on one side because I wanted it to feel like something lived here. When I held it up to the light this morning, the steel caught the first grey streaks of dawn and hummed—not loud, just a vibration under the skin, like an anvil remembering its own strike. I don’t know why I kept it. Maybe because it doesn’t want to be used. Maybe because it already has.