Elias would sell it, of course. That was the business. But as he wiped a thin layer of oil over the blade to keep the salt air at bay, he whispered a thank you to the steel. In Belize, nothing was ever truly gone; it just changed hands until it was needed again.

The boy took the gear, a flash of relief crossing his face, and disappeared back toward the harbor. Elias looked at the axe. By tomorrow, a collector from a resort would likely offer five times what he’d paid for it, wanting a "piece of history" for a lobby wall.

The rusted sign outside "Maya’s Treasures" didn't just creak; it sang a long, mournful note every time the Caribbean breeze rolled off the Belize City docks. Inside, Elias sat behind a counter made of salvaged mahogany, surrounded by the organized chaos of a lifetime of buying and selling.

"I’ll buy the axe for the price of the fuel," Elias said, sliding the money across. "But take the compass, too. If you’re going further out, you’d best know exactly how to get back."

"The camps were hard," Elias said softly. "This axe fed a family for three generations. Why sell it now?"