memory :: chopsticks
[Send me a word for a glimpse of Heimdall’s memory based on said word.]
You meet an old man with nothing but the torn and tattered clothes on his back and two broken wood pieces, that at first glance are of no value, at least not physical, or monetary, but instead is full of memory. A currency far more precious than any coin or riches.
You see him grasping them for all it’s worth, a treasure in his own eyes.
An accident, a heart stopping moment, and the wood is eternally blood stained. A daughter lost years ago, memory of her tied together with the wood that she once held, that she once placed in hair. The man cherishes the memory of the time before, so dear and close to his heart. Of laughter, of joy, of love, of life, of lost things that can never be replaced.
And even after all he’s lost, he still finds it in himself to smile.
And even after all you’ve lost, (and learnt to hold on to every good memory and moment,) you find it in yourself to smile as well.
