You delicately take the glove out of the worn, wooden box underneath your bed, the one that holds all of your most cherished treasures. You slowly raise it to your face, inhaling deeply, slowly. You slip your fingers delicately into the leather, savoring the way your fingers fit perfectly into their slots. Warm. Safe. A smile creeps across your face as you flex your hand and hear the gentle squeak of time passed. You reach back into your box and find your small vile of precious oil. You unscrew the lid and gently squeeze. Just three drops, right in the center. I stand in the doorway unnoticed, watching your ritual. Your arm flexes as you purposefully rub the oil into the glove. Back and forth. Back and forth. Pressing. Shaping. Back and forth until drops of sweat have beaded across your forehead. You flex your hand again. Again the smile. Silence. Satisfied you bring the glove back to your face. I inhale slowly, deeply. Tears form in the corners of my tired eyes and I let them drop to the floor. Just three. You reluctantly place the glove back into the box and quietly slide it back under the bed. Your eyes move anxiously to the doorway, but it is empty. Just like the glove.