The Helmet
A silent relic from an era soaked in steel and oath.
The helmet, chipped, rust-kissed, lightly dusted by time’s hand, rests as though still listening for the clash of swords.
It is not simply metal.
It is memory forged in fire, cooled in blood.
Who wore it?
A knight, perhaps... noble in intent, brutal in execution.
Or a mere soldier, obedient, nameless... carved into the pages of a forgotten siege.
This hollow shell once crowned a mind filled with fear, fury, or perhaps love.
Now it stares back at us, unblinking.
It remembers, even if no one else does.
Circle...
