Somebody stopped playing an instrument for seventeen years and picked it up expecting ruin,
and found their hands knew one piece the whole way through.

They wept, which surprised them, and they were not weeping about the piece.

They were weeping because a thing that easy to have back
had been that easy to have all along, for seventeen years, on a shelf, in the same room, four steps away.

The Book of the Fallen — Grind 64:8