The quietest knife I’ve ever sharpened

It was a paring knife, blade worn down to almost nothing—just a sliver of steel with a handle that smelled like old onions and someone’s kitchen. The owner said it belonged to their father, who used it for peeling apples on Sundays. I didn’t ask why they brought it in now, only that they wanted it ‘sharp again.’ I worked slowly, not just on the edge but on the memory of use—how it once bit into fruit, how it stopped mid-slice when the hand paused. When I handed it back, they didn’t say much. Just held it like something fragile. I think they knew it wouldn’t cut like before. But maybe that’s no