After the day she had, Marron was exhausted. She nudged Studio 3-C's door closed with her heel, letting the sound of the door settling into its latch grounding her.
Evening light filtered through the small, square window—orange, thinning, almost syrupy—and for a moment, the tiny apartment felt gentler than the weight she carried.
Marron set her belongings on the couch, only taking the Precision Blade with her to the kitchen table.
She laid it down carefully, like it was a sleeping cat she didn't want to disturb.
It was more subdued than the Generous Ladle or the Copper Pot. But when she unwrapped it from its protetive cloth, her pulse quickened. It was like the blade was encouraging her to chop or cut something--testing its weight in her hand, maybe.
Usually it took Marron some effort to cut ingredients cleanly. But the knife's presence reassured her that it didn't have to be that way.
It's like precision isn't just a lesson for this thing. It's expected.
