The chest rotted. I should have sealed it with oil or wax, but I thought I would never need it again. We buried it deep, Captain Barak and me, on a hill with three oaks. I thought I would never need it again. The chest fell apart as I hauled it out of the earth, the bottom gave way. Everything I left inside trying to sink back into the ground or like it was trying to get away from me.

It’s all covered in dirt and rot. Mold, that’s the right word. My old boots and tunic are useless, chewed up by the mold. But the rest is fine, steel waits. That’s what Barak said at least. ‘Steel and stone pass through our hands over and over, father to son, father to son. They wait.’

I can clean the armor and the shield. And the sword. Beach sand will serve. The leather wrap on the sword hilt is rotting, I’ll need to replace it. It feels strange, the sword in my hand. Like the pen and the ink, I wanted to forget the words. I wanted to forget the sword’s words too.

It surprises me how bright the paint on my shield is. Yellow and red.