He never saw the tool again. The boy walked out with the music box still broken—and the obsidian piece warm in his pocket. Elias didn't mind. He had learned, finally, that the I key tool was never meant to be kept. It was meant to be passed on.
Elias pressed it gently into the boy's hand. "It reminds you that 'I' is not a noun," he said. "It's a verb. You don't have a self. You tool one, every moment, with every choice." i key tool
For the first time, his I was a verb without a shadow. He never saw the tool again
That was the true tool. Not the obsidian. Not the revealed identity. But the act of looking. " the boy said.
"I don't understand," the boy said.