The handle took shape gradually.
It looked both smooth and possessed of friction at certain angles, as if the surface itself was shifting under invisible pressure and never fully settling into one single texture.
Two halves of the same element were being fitted together by an unseen force, the seam between them disappearing as if the material had always been whole.
Unusual silk, fine and faintly luminous, wrapped around the forming grip in precise diamond shapes arranged downward along its length.
The silk seemed to sink into the wood-and-metal surface rather than simply rest on top of it, becoming part of the structure itself, threads disappearing into the grain.
The shape was elegant, but understated. It did not scream for attention or announce its own importance.
But it suddenly paused.
As if time itself had stopped working in that small space above Benjamin's palms. The swirling fragments hung motionless in the air.
