It’s funny how a tiny brass key can feel like a bridge between past and present. Every tool, every machine carries the fingerprints of the people who built, used, and loved it. Those fingerprints are stories—whispers of the village legend, the clatter of the workshop, the sigh of a weary mechanic. When we look at that brass piece and hear the legend, the engine becomes more than gears and pistons; it becomes a vessel of memory. Stories give tools personality. They shape how we treat them: a rusted hammer that once fixed a bridge might be handled with reverence, its weight felt in every strike. A worn-out sewing machine that fed a family’s livelihood might be cleaned with more care, almost as if we’re preserving a soul. And sometimes, the story can be a cautionary tale, making us more careful with the machinery we trust. So when you mend that engine, you’re not just fixing parts—you’re honoring the narrative stitched into its metal. In that sense, stories and tools are inseparable, each one coloring the other in subtle, often unspoken ways.