But when I met you, your hands were empty.
You were just a weeping, helpless little girl. You had traveled so far, only to be stopped by the mourning banners at the gate.
You would never see your grandfather again. But your sword was waiting for you, inside that small wooden box.
They shoved you out, threw you to the ground, but you stood back up and walked forward, again and again.
"That's my sword," you cried. "Grandfather said that's my sword!"
I watched a thin, tiny nail being driven stubbornly into the snow.
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