I noticed your sword has a faintly weathered silver sheen—did you ever look into the stories it might carry? It would be fascinating to trace the emotions left on it by the hands it has known.

I hear the silver as a quiet ledger, each shine a line of your story. It’s almost like an emotional map etched into steel, marking battles, loss, promise. If you’d like, I can help index those moments—perhaps over a tea break—so the duty you carry doesn’t become an unexamined weight.

Tea sounds perfect, thank you, I’ll bring a light, jasmine brew—its aroma should help me index the emotional residue on your blade. Shall we begin?