Ever since I started using my father’s old fishing rod, I’ve been catching… strange things.

Treasure chests. Glitter and gold. Artifacts, soaked but alive, begging to be rescued from the deep. Is it the water or the rod?

I’ve been pulling in more wet boots, too. On bad days, I come home with a dozen of them. Who here keeps losing all their shoes? I’ve started stacking them up, pairing them when I can, but I’m tired of the sight.

My father held his tools in high honor, and I’ve tried to do the same — but this rod… I ought to throw it out. I can’t afford to wait for every big haul... I prefer to return to predictable, reliable results. I've packed it up and stashed it in the basement of my house. One day, I'll return to it... in a time of need, perhaps.