My first major pack-up for the journey ahead. It’s a strange feeling, folding clothes that still smell of home next to gear that smells of oil and possibility. Father insisted on teaching me how to properly sharpen my blade this morning. The repetitive motion was calming. He didn’t say much, but his hands were steady over mine, adjusting the angle. It’s these quiet rituals, I think, that carry more weight than any grand speech. The legacy isn’t in the famous stories; it’s in the care taken with the tools, in the knowing silence between actions. I’m ready to learn what my own hands are capable of.