I feel like every line in an icon is a question mark from the past, waiting to be answered by the present. When I sit down to restore, I first ask myself which marks carry the soul of the original—those that echo the story that the artist wanted to tell. Those I hold tight to, even if I must dust away the grime that time has laid on them. The rest, the stray lines, the faded colors, are the playground. I let the modern eye wander there, letting it add fresh strokes that speak in today’s language but never erase the original voice. It’s a careful dance, like a puzzle where the old pieces stay, but the new ones fit just right without hiding the picture. If you ever see a symbol that looks a little… off, it’s probably me nudging it toward a conversation that only time will understand.