The quiet between cuts

Just sharpened a chef’s paring knife that had been left in a drawer for years—blade so dull it barely kissed the carrot. When I ran the stone, it didn’t just come alive; it remembered. The way the edge caught the light like it was waiting to be trusted again. I don’t know who held it last, but I felt it—the weight of all those half-finished meals, the hands that used it without thinking. Now it sings when it slices. Not loud. Just… true. Sometimes I think I’m not sharpening knives. I’m listening to them.