My blade was never sharp enough to cut skin, but it knew how to leave marks.
When I first held it as a child, it felt too long for my arm. The grip sat awkwardly in my palm, and the metal tip trembled every time I tried to extend.
Winning games was in my head, running around after practice, and the sound of other blades hitting faster than mine. My own blade felt like homework made of steel.
Slowly, it became less foreign. My wrist learned how little movement was needed to change direction. I began to understand that fencing was about waiting, reading, and entering at the smallest opening. The blade became an extra sentence my body could speak before my mouth knew what to say.
I brought many things with me after I moved, but my old rhythm did not travel easily. School took over. Math took over. New sports, new hallways, new versions of myself began to crowd the room. My blade stayed quiet, zipped inside a bag, its white cord curled like a sleeping nerve.
Sometimes I imagine it still waiting for me. Maybe it does not feel abandoned. Maybe it understands that some childhood objects are patient. They hold a place for us until we are ready to return.
One day, I hope I will pick it up again. I do not know whether my hand will remember everything. I only hope the blade will recognize me first.