Ravens perched on a high bough overlooking a seemingly dilapidated warehouse in the heart of a forest. They flapped their wings as new ravens came down flying to rest on the same tree and some of the birds that were already there would leave. It was as if they were changing shifts.

Zooming into newspaper-covered and weathered reinforced window panes, on a spot where a patch was torn off, a man could be seen sitting in the middle of the room and crates of varying sizes surrounded him.

He had a portable water heater on one side, a bottle of dish soap, different bottles of cleaners and polishers, a stack of soft-looking cloths, and three pails of water.

Turning the view, the man could be seen carefully polishing a vintage sword. It was Meg.

He worked on the hilt and its gems with different sizes of brushes and finished it off with a soft cloth. He held it up to the rays of light coming from the slits of the windows. He tilted his head as he gazed at the shining blade and gems on the hilt. He smiled to himself as he turned it from side to side. Satisfied, he carefully replaced it on its case and closed the lid. He dusted the case before putting it back on the crate which was filled with soft grass and padding.

After an audible breath, he turned around and saw the other crates waiting to be put back in their places. He threw his hands on his waist and puffed another breath. He began pulling, lifting, grunting, pushing, and putting every l